


The Meeting

by blackwatson23



Series: Interracial Sherlock: The Meeting, The Affair and The Future [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Dating, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fem!John - Freeform, Interracial Relationship, John gets his own chapter but as a dog, M/M, Marriage, Romantic Comedy, What Have I Done, and my mind, children come later too, fem!john watson, its coming, mystrade fluff is imminite, prepare thy holes, someone take away my computer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:50:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackwatson23/pseuds/blackwatson23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan Watson is anything but a homely southern belle. After some tragedy that also wounds her, she meets an interesting man named Mike Stamford and is encouraged to travel to London to escape. There, she meets an interesting creature named Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>Her life is in for one hell of a emotional and physical roller coaster, and Sherlock is in for a a couple of actual meals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first serious fanfic. I am fully expecting podfics, other fanfics, and very lovely fan art from readers in the near future.

Joan Watson sat on the plane, shivering with excitement. She was finally able to get enough money saved to go to the Medical Conference, held in London, England this year. At first, when she started school before enlisting in the Army, she met a fellow doctor, a man named Mike Stanford when he visited the U.S for the Medical Conference held in Nashville, TN at Vanderbilt Hospital. He was a slightly chubby man, with a speckled friendly pale face ho didn’t flinch at firmly shaking a black woman’s hand. All the other white doctors didn’t see anything interesting in the woman’s kind but hard face.

She wasn’t too tall but also not too short, standing at 5’7 she wasn’t skyscraper. Her face was perfectly oval, that was highlighted by her short pixie haircut, perfectly permed and coiffed. Her cat shaped eyes were surrounded by bags and were a deep brown, a color that lit up when she was excited by goings on in the field. Her lips were full, and so was her body, not fat but a firm enough hourglass figure to let anyone know that she took care of herself and could take care of any man in the bedroom, if he were so lucky. She thinks the hostility may come from the fact that if push came to should, she could kick their entire ass in the street, psychosomatic limp or not.

When Mike Stamford met her, it was a welcome reprieve from sideway glances and upturned noses.

“You were in the army?” Mike asked her, after saying his hello. She nodded and shifted herself off her left leg. It started bothering her but she tried to not let it show.

“Um, yeah,” She responded. She scratched the back of her head with her right hand, holding her metal cane in her left. “I was on break when I got hurt here, so I was discharged much earlier than I liked.”

Mike nodded, understanding. ‘”Well, I’m happy to meet you here. Everyone seems so snobby here; it’s nice to see a friendly face.’

“Well it’s the south,” Joan replied, shrugging. “America has a history of Southerners thinking that they’re better than everyone. No matter where you come from,” She paused and looked hard down at the floor. “Or what race you are.”

Mike was quiet then, looking at her. She still stared at the linoleum floor; face a mixture of anger and sadness. He didn’t know her pain, but heard rumors of it from friends that visited the Southern states of America. He knew the history of America was filled with slavery and racism, that lived in the south and was halted near the northern states, aftereffects still apparent today.

“But it could be worse,” Joan suddenly said, bringing back his attention. “I could be living in the 50’s or 60’s, being shot down or sprayed with water hoses and eaten alive by police dogs.” She chuckled lightly, the sound dry and fake. Mike looked down and laughed too, his sounding just as dry.

The conference started and they entered it together, sitting next to one another. Afterwards, they went and had lunch together.

“I think you should visit London, sometime,” He told her offhandedly, taking a bite of a sandwich. She looked at him then, confused.

“Why?” She asked. “I don’t have any money to get there. I’m lucky that the army paid my school bills and the leftover paid my hospital bill. What’s happening?”

“The next conference is going to be there next year,” Mike told her. “I think you’d enjoy it. It’s a new place so none of the unfriendly faces will be there, well, not all of them. I could get you a ticket and save you a spot so you won’t have to worry about that. You can stay with my wife and me so you don’t have to spend money on a room or food.”

Joan’s eyes opened wide in shock. She’d only met the guy today and him already spoken like they’d known each other for years.

“I-I don’t want to be a bother,” She told him sheepishly. “It’s a lot of money that I don’t have and I wouldn’t even know how to start paying you back.”

 _She doesn’t realize I meant for free_ , Mike thought. _She thinks I’m going to ask for a payment. How often do people do nice things for her without wanting something in return?_

He shook his head and patted her on her good shoulder. “No worries, a woman like you is going places and staying here you won’t get there. Let’s make a deal,” Mike held out his hand, for her to grasp. “If you can gather the money to make the flight there and back, you won’t have to worry about paying me back. It’ll all be for free and you’ll have a great time without worrying about your wallet.”

Joan stared at his hand, taking in his offer. Did he realize no one did anything for free? Everything free had its price. _But what harm it could do_ , Joan thought. _If I can, I will. If not, I won’t worry about it._

She looked up and smiled at him, shaking his hand firmly.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

11 months later and Joan was flying over the pond to England. After the conference, she was able to get a position at a clinic near the hospital that, surprisingly, paid a decent wage. Since she still lived at home with her mom, saving wasn’t all that hard. Her mom worked cleaning houses so the bills were taken care of, the left over money she got from the Army bought food. She wasn’t the type of person to splurge on fancy clothes or shoes. Her sister Harry was the one who did that and, by the fact that cleaning houses didn’t get her the stuff she wanted, she moved out with her boyfriend. He was able to keep her comfortably encased in Michael Kors and Calvin Klein from the Macys at the Green Hills mall.

Joan however preferred the goodwill, getting non-designer but still nice sweaters and button ups, blue jeans and shorts. The summers in the south were always nice so she practically lived in the knee length skirts she bought in the spring.

She packed a couple of sweaters, two button up short sleeve dress shirts, a pair of black jeans and dress pants, and a black band t-shirt. She wore a black cardigan she found at a garage sale the day before the trip over a button up shirt, a black under the knee skirt and her only pair of converses, old and but still in good condition. Her metal cane was close to her side. To any outsider she looked Goth and unapproachable, exactly how she wanted in the airport. She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally got on board, shrugging off the hot cardigan and basking in excitement.

She called mike the week before, letting him know she was coming. They had kept in touch during the year, communication mainly via Skype and paper mail.

“I can’t wait to see the both of you,” She told him one night online, holding up her plane ticket. ‘I cannot express how grateful I am to have met you and your wife, Mike. I’m so excited!”

Mike laughed and clapped his hands. “You’ve worked really hard and we can’t wait to have you. We’ve planned a surprise for you too, when you get here so make sure you’re on that plane!”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

When Joan stepped off the plane, Mike and his wife were standing at the entrance to her terminal, waving frantically. Joan hobbled through and gave them both a big hug.

“Im so happy to see you,” She told them. “Let’s go. I’m excited to see the sites.”

Mike laughed and took her bags. Mrs. Stamford fretted over her.

“My goodness,” She tittered. “You look exhausted.”

Joan gave a halfhearted smile. “I’m fine. To be honest, the best night’s rest I’ve had in a coon’s age.”

Mrs. Stamford gave her a questioning look. Mike laughed.

“It’s an American saying, dear.”

“Oh,” She said quietly. Joan smirked and they walked to Mike’s car.

As they drove from the airport, Mike asked Joan, who was comfortably seated in the backseat, about where she wanted to stay.

“Oh well I just assumed I’d be crashing on your couch in you guest room.” He told her before she came that it was free because they rarely got any guests and that she would be more than welcome to use it. Mrs. Stamford tsked.

“Michael,” She scolded. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

Mike was surprisingly quiet and from the backseat she could see his ears reddening.

“W-well,” He stammered. This is not good, Joan thought.

“You see, Joan, my wife and I am having our house redone. New fixture and whatnot, and it turn out that…”

“You won’t be coming home with us.” Mrs. Stamford blurted out suddenly, turning around in her seat to flash Joan a big toothy smile. Joan noticed how the kind notion didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh, well,” Joan somewhat irritated. She could tell this woman did not want her anywhere near her home. “I saved up enough money to get a hotel room somewhere close.”

The couple was quiet in the front seat, Mrs. Stamford facing forward again. Joan felt like telling Mike to turn the car around and take her back to the airfield so she could hop a plane back home. She felt like a fool following these people without a second thought. Though she was miles away, and feeling cheated, she was strangely at peace. She was able to get away from home, to breathe the fresh air of a new place. She didn’t have to worry about work or her mom’s well-being, which was always at the forefront. Her mother was the reason she wanted to be in medicine, to help the ones who encouraged her to get out of the projects and live a good life. She wanted to take care of both her and the rest of her family, soar through the skies of achievement. Before the incident with her sister, all she wanted to do was live. Now, she needed encouragement to get out of the bed.

Mike drove her to the hotel she would be staying in.

"This is what we could afford i]on such short notice," Mrs. Stamford explained, a bit of derision in her voice. "But the Gloucester will make you feel right at home."

 

 

 


	2. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan Meets a mysertious stranger getting his ass whooped by a couple of assholes....
> 
> The Color Purple Oprah "All my life I had to fight" is hinted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to me being a goober and not reading my chapters correctly this is a repost of chapter 2.... the right one.
> 
> The one that makes sense and that i worked really hard on.

The first night at the Gloucester hotel wasn’t as bad as Joan expected it to be. When she got to her door, she expected to see a dirty carpet, a bed with questionable stains on the sheets and maybe a friendly cockroach or two. The small comfy room reminded her of one of those bed and breakfasts she saw on the Travel channel and she gave a big sigh of relief. The bed was a small twin size, with a pillow, sheets and red, gold and white cover that matched the red and gold wallpaper around it. In front of the bed a small refrigerator and a desk sat side by side, a lamp and telephone sat atop the table. Above the desk was a medium size window that gave a decent view of the street. However much it cost a night, it was decent enough for her not to go back outside and give Mrs. Stamford a good talking to.  
“Here is your bag,” Mike huffed, placing the bag on top the small bed. “I hope it’s alright. It’s what I could get on short notice. “  
Joan shrugged. “Im not picky at all, Mike, to be honest with you. I think it’s very lovely.”  
She wobbled over to him and hugged his chubby frame. He, in return, blushed slightly.  
“Thank you for this, Mike,” Joan smiled gently, rubbing her arm gently. “I…I really needed this trip. I think I was really close to losing my mind at home.”  
Mike’s blush darkened and he rubbed at the back of his head, looking down at the ground.  
“Oh not at all, Joan; I believe you of all people deserve it. Well, I better be off. Give me a call if you need anything, yeah?”  
Joan nodded, reaching into her cardigan pocket for her phone. It belonged to her sister Harriet, given to her by her girlfriend Clara. When they broke up, Harry had given it to her.  
“To keep in touch,” She had said, swallowing down another drink.  
“The conference starts tonight right?” She asked, opening her carry-on bag.  
“Yeah,” Mike agreed. “Too bad I won’t be making this one. I was hoping to sit with you again like old times.”  
“Yeah, 9’o clock, I believe. It can get pretty dark here so make sure you catch a taxi instead of trying to walk. With that, it can be pretty unsafe.”  
Joan smirked, and held the handle of her cane a little tighter.  
“I will be. Be safe going back.”  
‘Ta, Joan,” Mike said again, hugging her.  
“Bye, Mike.”  
A few hours after He left, Joan was ready to head out into the town. She took out a small black purse she packed into her suitcase and placed in her, passport, plane tickets, a pack of Stride Sour Patch Kids Red berry gum, mini pocket knife, mini flashlight and a bottle of pepper spray. She had casted a wry look at the last item, knowing distinctly that she hadn’t put it in.  
Momma, Joan thought.  
After taking a surprisingly refreshing shower in the room’s tiny bathroom, Joan changed into an old scratchy sweater men’s sweater. The beige color stood out slightly from her dark caramel skin tone, and with it she matched a pair of dark jeans. After lacing up her converses, she took one more glance at herself in the bathroom mirror. A very tired black girl stared back at her, the weight of the world on her shoulders that caused her to lean uneasily into the unsightly metal cane at her right side. She brought her hand up and ran her fingers through her pixie cut, pulling a few strands over her forehead.  
“This’ll do, Babe,” She said aloud, turning left and right to look at her profile. “This’ll do.” Heading back to the room, she placed her phone, knife and room key in her pants pocket, her small wad of cash she had in her wallet into her bra. If something was going to happen to her on a small London Street, she was damn well going to be prepared for it. These white people would have to be pretty fearless if they were going to attack a black girl from the Southern Projects.  
Turning off her table light, she left the room and the hotel, heading out into the early twilight.  
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>><>><>><><>><><><><><><><><><><>><>><  
This…cannot….be happening.  
Joan stood at the door to the Holiday Inn Hotel, staring at a boldfaced cancel sign posted on the door.  
 **Due to unforeseen circumstances, the ICEM 2014: XIII International Conference on Emergency Medicine has been canceled in its entirety.**  
 **We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.**  
 **-Conference Committee**  
I can’t believe this, Joan thought, hands balled into tight fists. I spent almost 500 dollars on a plane ticket to get to a conference I paid almost 600 dollars for. That was rent money, bill money and my life savings. No, no, nononono.  I’mma punch a fucking baby tomorrow, this is completely unacceptable!  
Closing her eyes tight, she breathed in and out through her nose until she slowly felt her anger recedes slightly.  
“Okay, okay.” She sighed, turning away from the door. She walked down a road that was brightly lit, and brushed past couples and people walking. The narrow streets were much different than the wide ones at home, making her feel a little bit safer that she believed she was. At home, walking on a wide empty street meant that you could come up missing or found in a dumpster if you weren’t careful. It also meant that more people could hide in the shadows and surrounding bushes and buildings, giving you an awful scare. It had happened to her and her sister many a time before, luckily for Harry, she had an army trained badass doctor for a little sister.  
But unluckily for Joan currently, this was not home. Even though the night was nice and cool for a late summer early fall night, she held her cardigan closed against her chest a little tighter, hand shaking.  
Okay, I’m fine, she told herself looking down, trying not to totally freak herself out. She continued walking; looking up every now and again to make sure she didn’t walk into anything. It’s not too bad. I have my phone and my pepper spray so if I need to kill a nigga, I can. I’ll just stay out where there are people so I’ll be safe. I’ll be…  
A loud bang sounded from somewhere and Joan looked up in surprise. The street was clear, except for a few cabs a people walking down the road, a bit too far away for Joan’s liking. She looked around trying to pinpoint the sound. If she could find it, she could avoid it, there for saving herself from doing time in an English prison. She’d seen Little Dorritt too many times on Masterpiece Theatre at home and felt like she knew what the prison’s entailed.  
“Where ya goin’, man?” A voice asked loudly, laughing.  
“Gimmie ya’ wallet and you can be on ya’ way,” Another said after the first. A loud banging sounded afterwards, followed by some scuffling and grunts.  
Walking up a little farther, Joan came to the corner to the entrance of an alley. Flattening herself as close as possible to the wall she leaned sideways to peek down it. In the dimly lit alleyway, what looked like three big black ovals, which she could tell were obviously some type of robbers, were stomping on and grabbing a smaller ball. The ball rose quickly from its spot at the guy’s feet, looking now like a tall stick, and did a speedy move on one of the guys, sending him sprawling to the ground. The ball then sat atop leaned atop the guy, pummeling him with blows.  
“Get this mutherfucker,” He cried, voice coming out choked. The two guys moved to grab the ball, throwing him back. The stick grunted and raised, shoulders lifting and rising rapidly.  
“Kill ‘em!”      
Joan, help!  
“Hey!” Joan screamed, moving fully into the line of sight. The two thugs standing turned, looking back at her. The one on ground groaned and tried to stand. “Leave him alone, loser, or you’ll have to ansewer to me!”  
What. Am. I. Doing?  
“What chu’ say, bitch?” One spat, while another started walking towards her. Standing her ground, Joan held her can as tight as she could, prepare to strike.  
“I’ll beat that ass like a part-time job,” She warned, pointing a finger at the one closest to her. He stopped right in his tracks. “Don’t try me and I swear you’ll leave here with my cane in my hand instead of your ass.”  
The three men standing were shocked silent. And then, as if god had permitted it, the one closest to her came flying at her.  
And so it begins, she thought, bracing herself.  
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>><><<><><><><><><><><><>><><><><>  
When Joan was a little girl, one beautiful hot summer Saturday, her mom took her to her uncle’s house. Uncle Brown was a slightly burley man whose height made you think twice about stepping any way to him. The first day of middle school, a couple of white girls from the rich side of town decided it would be fun to try and beat on the small, scrawny little girl from the projects. They unfortunately succeeded, sending her home with a black eye, busted lower lip and a face full of dirt mixed with the tears she couldn’t quite stop from flowing from her eyes.  
“You come across people like dem erry’ day,” He warned, words drawled out slowly and seriously. He took her hands in his, and balled them into fists. “But god gave you the tools you need to beat some since in they lil’ ass heads. When you done hur wit’ me, you gon’ know. Don’t nobody fuck wit’ my niece, nobody.”  
When she went back to school that next week, she was a new person. And unfortunately for those girls who lived on the rich side of town, found out the hard way. The memory from them came back to Joan after she finished kicking the asses of the guys in the alleyway. When she fought the first jerk, the memory of fighting her sister’s unwanted suitors in the park, flashed through her mind as her right foot connected with his genitals. When the second came at her, holding what she found was a beer bottle, the memories of her fighting soldiers in Afghani heat brought a terrible mood, making the feel of her fist connecting with his jaw that much more satisfying.  
When the last guy’s, who finally got off the ground, palm connected with her cheek, it was a welcome surprise.  
“Great,” She breathed heavily, smiling widely. “I was hoping for an excuse to end yo’ pathetic ass...”  
When he reached for her, she easily ducked out of the way and with swing that would have made Babe Ruth and Jackie Robinson proud, she swung her cane, connecting with his head with a loud clang. He flew to the ground, landing heavily at the feet of his two goons.  
“H-hey, let’s go man,” One said grabbing the collar of their now unconscious friend. His standing partner helped by lifting the unmoving arm, dragging him away.  
“We won’t forget this you fucking cunt!” They cried, running out towards the street she came from, back to their home in the sewers, probably.  
Joan placed her hands on her hips, facing out towards the where they ran.  
“I hope not, you ass monkeys! She yelled after them. “Don’t let me catch you in this hood again or you’ll be feeling me rather than hearing me.” She nodded, feeling good.  
God I haven’t felt this alive in ages! She thought to herself, closing her eyes. The energy from the action coursed through her veins like a loose locomotion and she had held on for the ride. Maybe London isn’t too far from home as I thought.  
The hair at the back of her neck prickled as an unknown presence stood behind her. Without thinking about it, her right fist whirled around fast and was caught in a pale ice, cold boney grip.  
He was standing way too close, she realized as her eyes locked onto a dark scarf and the grainy texture of what seemed to be a pea coat. Slowly bringing her eyes up, darkness had a halo around it, a bunch of fuzzy curls.  
“U-Um,” She stuttered, unsure really what to say. The stranger stayed silent, now holding loosely to her fist. The fingers of his left hand gently ran over the back of her closed hand as he took his away. Her shaking hand opened slowly and she quickly brought it behind her back.  
“S-Sorry; Are your alight, sir,” She asked quietly, remembering her manners. The man stayed mysteriously silent, only moving his left arm to hold up her slightly beaten up cane. She grabbed the handle and pulled it to herself.  
“Thank you.”  
He allowed it to slip towards her until the end, where he closed his grip tight on it. Her brows furrowed, looking down at the cane and then up to him. She tugged a little harder, and he let go causing her to almost slip backwards. When she recovered, the man glided past her, his long legs making his coat bottom billow out behind him as he hurried around the right corner.  
“Wait! Wait a minute,” She called, taking a step forward. Her right leg stiffened suddenly, making her lean against her cane.  
Rushing to the main sidewalk, she looked down the way he turned, seeing nothing but the empty sidewalk.  
He was gone.  


 


	3. Potential Flatemate Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan has very bad dreams and wants to end it all. She then finds out that the creature with the longs fingers has a name and needs a flatmate.
> 
> (Finally, Sherlock Holmes makes an entrance!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working 40 hours for Macy's is not where it's at. It leaves me broken, hateful and too exhausted to write the chapters that fly out my butt before i go to sleep. Now that i have 5 days off, Some good stuff is coming up so please stay tuned. 
> 
> Since i didn't write for the past couple of days, i'll make this chapter p long. Merry Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah to all my readers and i hope we have a great holiday season/New Year together!
> 
> #InterracialRelationships2015

Sounds of Gunshots... Running through planes of grass, sand, on concrete... Men everywhere, dead dying... One man with a gun turns into too many with guns. Pain, a scream, silence... Heavy Breathing...

_Joan, Joan._

_Joan, HELP ME!_

Joan woke up with a start, flying up and gasping for air. Sweat trickled down the sides of her face from her forehead.

Not again.

She collapsed back onto the pillow, placing her hands over her eyes. She urged herself to be strong enough not to cry but the fact that she might actually start bawling, again, threatened at the muscles behind her eyes.

Afterwards, she tried going back to sleep, only to give up with the fear she might have those nightmares again. Her nightmares started in the hospital after she was shot and continued afterwards. They started out small, little nice memories of her time in Afghanistan. She thought of the men and women she helped, of children and their smiling faces. She thought of her comrades, teasing her for being such a big softy and encouraging her to try her hand shooting cans off of abandoned cars. They were surprised when she got the hang of it so quickly, nicknaming her Clint inspired by the man with the squint and the tilted hat. Soon, they grew more violent; the men were filled with bullet holes and burned in big piles in front of her eyes. The women were raped and blown up to smithereens, their screams echoing loud in the blank sky. The worse parts were the children, the innocent babies. Their light filled eyes, joyful and innocent were black and unfeeling. Holding big heavy machine guns with the ease of adults; bombs of unimaginable sizes attached to their tiny chests, arms hugging the legs of soldiers as they went off one by one, killing themselves and everyone around them. That’s when the gun magically appeared in her hand and squared away as many as she squeeze from the trigger, bullets between eyes, in explosive chest packs, into hearts. Then, when they were gone, she kept squeezing, killing off sergeants and fellow doctors and soldiers with big smiles and even bigger hearts. Looking down, her hands were covered in blood and the ground became an ocean of it, sweeping her away and drowning her in it.

When she had those dreams, she cried loudly into the night, waking the soldier’s in bunks above and beside her. Her superiors told her if she didn’t get it together, she couldn’t come back, and got her in touch with a therapist. The therapist, a much younger than Joan white man with short blond hair and a kind attitude, hadn’t even sat down with her 15 minutes before typing a letter to them, urging that allowing Joan to return to the action would not only be too dangerous but deadly as well.

_Her PTSD causes her not to sleep and when she does, have violent nightmares that involve her holding a gun and killing everyone around her. Whether she chooses to act upon these urges or not is something I think we all would rather not wait and see to come to turn._

Joan sat up on the side of the bed, allowing her feet to touch the carpeted floor. She sat there, solemnly, wishing she was in a different place right now. Somehow, after the fight with the mysterious man, she had lost her purse and all of her important stuff with it. Luckily she didn’t lose her debit card, but her id, passport, and plane ticket home were in there. Joan gave a heavy sigh and looked around her room, still draped in the darkness of London’s early morning. Her eyes lay upon her cane, beaten up and leaning against the side of the door. She hated that damn cane. It made her feel constantly that she was broken, a shell of woman. She felt useless, and alone with it, a crutch that made people question if she was okay to do anything on her own. Then, as an afterthought, she remembered the jerks and the man she saved, tall and brooding, with mysterious hands and long fingers. They were nice hands, soft but with a hidden strength in them.

The things he could probably do with those fingers…

“No,” Joan said aloud to herself, shaking her head. “What am I thinking? The hell is wrong with me?!”  
She rose and went to her suitcase, and unzipped it. Reaching under her neatly folded clothes, she pulled out her laptop. Hobbling to the desk, she sat down at it, placing the machine in front of her. The young therapist encouraged her to write about herself, about anything she did or went through or felt, to maybe help her through her healing process. She had talked about it with him before she left home.

“How’s the blog going?” He asked her, curious.

“…yeah, good,’ She cleared her throat and looked down at the clipboard on his lap. Even though she wasn’t far away, she could read what he had written, upside down, on his paper. “Very good…”

“You haven’t written a word have you?”

“You just wrote, ‘Still has trust issues…’” He looked down at his paper and then back at her, worried.

‘And you read my writing upside down. You see what I mean?”

Joan softly scoffed.

“Joan, you are a still a soldier. It’s going to take you some time to adjust to civilian life and writing a blog about everything that happens to you, will honestly help you with that.”

“Nothing happens to me.” She told him, believing it.

So now, sitting at the desk, the dawn breaking through the clouds in the window, she stared at an empty blog page. She had written a couple of private entries after talking to the therapist, but nothing was entered on those pages except mini rants about people and summaries of her going to the store or hanging out with her mom at home. While the cursor blinking at her did nothing to bring exciting words out, Joan pointed her index finger and typed anyway.

<><><><>><>>><><>><><><><><>><><><><><><><><>><>><><><><><><><>><>><> 

_Journal Entry 5_

_2014_

_A short, choppy entry today it seems. I have no energy to write and all I want to do is take the longest nap in the history of napping. Maybe I’ll be the first woman to attempt hibernation when I’m done with this. So, here we go:_

_I finally made it to London and so far it’s off to a very shitty start. Mike Stamford’s wife obviously sees me as a home wrecking tramp and didn’t want me staying in her house. (She didn’t exactly say it in those words, but the fact that I am currently staying in a hotel instead of the bedroom I was promised is evidence of that.)_

_The Medical conference I talked about before was canceled (Canceled can you believe it?!) and I ended up walking back to my hotel last night. That was when real shit happened. There was a man being beat up in an alleyway by three bitch-ass men (I didn’t see their faces so I can’t give you race, sorry) for what seems like no reason. I thought they were gonna kill him until he got up and started wailing on one of the dudes and knocking him to the ground. The gangster, his bitch-ass, started crying to his fake ass friends to help him and that’s when they ganged up on him again._

_I could have just walked away, but I thought of Harriet and all the other kids I hung out with back at home. I hate when guys (or girls) think they can beat up on people because someone might be different or because it might make them look cool or powerful. It’s such utter bullshit. Its moments like those that make me happy I went to the army to protect my friends from people like them. Anyway, so you know I couldn’t just let him be right? You know I laid the smack-down on all three of them._

_At the end of my major ass whooping, they ran off like the pansies they were, probably back to their baby momma’s houses (Because in order for you to beat up on someone for no reason, you have to have no home training obviously.) But I think the main interesting person in this was the guy they were beating up on. He was tall and I mean really tall. He had to have been about 6 ft. with some really curly hair. He wore a long over trench coat (Maybe of the pea coat persuasion?) and a dark scarf wrapped around his neck. I think it was blue. The fact that he was so tall probably was part of the reason he was so easily able to sneak up on me (Yeah, he snuck up on me for no reason. Probably because he was weird seems like a good one.)_

_He snuck up on me so well, that I had to turn with my fist ready to cave his face in if he was going to try something on me. And when I was going to apparently connect with his chest, he caught my fist in his hand! Like, he held it for a good minute in his palm like it was nothing! It wasn’t like a manly type of hand though, his hand was the palest color I had ever seen and the fingers were long and manicured, nice hands. They were the type of fingers that did no real work, they were soft and smooth and all together very nice._

_Anyway, the guy ran off and I think that he may have stolen my purse. Lucky me to save a guy’s life and he robs me of all that I own in a strange place. Damn….person._

_Maybe he was a ghost. Or…maybe he was a cute ghost that will haunt me for the rest of my life._

_Maybe he wasn’t a cute ghost but a real person and if I ever see him again, I’ll turn him into one._

_-End of Entry-_

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“That’s terrible!’ Mike exclaimed when Joan met up with him later that day. After she finished her journal entry for the day, she had planned to shower then go back to bed and sleep. When Mike knocked on the door 45 minutes later, after she had settled herself back in bed, he had invited her to go out for coffee. She had planned to say no, but mike urged her on, telling her that the last thing she needed to do on a vacation was to do the same things she did at home.

They took a walk in a nearby park and sat down on an empty bench, people watching.

“Yeah,” Joan agreed. “It was just a sign on the outside. They probably emailed people about it but I didn’t get it because I don’t know how to get into my email.”

Mike chuckled and Joan smiled shyly. Her ignorance in computer usage was something she really needed to work on. She could turn it on, and pull up the site of her blog on the internet but still typed using both index fingers instead of her all her fingers or however the young techies did it nowadays.

“Now you’re stuck here until your plane ticket can be used.” Mike sighed, shaking his head back and forth slowly. “Shame…”

Joan looked away and squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t tell him about last night’s misadventure. She totally should though, seeing how without any real money or any real friends, outside of her circle with Mike and his two-faced wife, she was literally on her own. She could pay to get another ticket, but there was no telling how much that would cost. And no doubt the hotel wouldn’t allow her to stay there for the rest of her life with nothing.

“Yeah,” She replied. “Di-didn’t you say you worked at a hospital here?”

“Yeah, Bart’s,” Mike replied, easily getting off the subject of her. “I’m teaching there. Bright young things like we used to be…god, I hate them.”

Joan laughed lightly with him and looked down at the coffee in her lap.

“Lucky you, Mr. Stamford,” Joan joked. “Living the life in London with a teacher’s salary; if I lived permanently here, I know I wouldn’t last a day here with the pathetic pension the army gives me every month.”

“You wouldn’t be able to bare it anywhere else.” Mike joked back, smiling. “All this negativity doesn’t sound like the Joan Watson I know.”

 _Then you really don’t know me at all then_ , Joan wanted to reply _. I’m so tired of everything_.

But she stayed silent, taking a sip of coffee instead. Mike copied her and after he swallowed his sip he spoke again.

“Well, if you really wanted to stay her permanently, you could get a flat share or something.”

Joan scoffed, unbelievingly. Really, what other black people, or people period, did she know in England that she could share a place with?

“Please, who would want me for a roommate?”

Mike locked his eyes on hers and laughed, scratching his head.”

“What?”

“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.” Mike responded.

_The second person…_

“Well, who was the first?” Joan asked him.

Mike….smiled.

<><><><><><><><><><><<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

Joan followed Mike into St. Bartholomew’s hospital and up an elevator and out into a short hallway with office and lab doors on both sides with a single one located at the very end in front of them. Mike walked in front of her and entered a lab that ending lab.

“Oh,” Joan gasped aloud. “Everything here looks so high tech." 

"Didn't they upgrade your labs?" Mike asked, taking a seat on an empty stool. 

"Yeah they did.But everything is still a bit different from my day. I'm still not used to it.”

Limping in, Joan looked around the lab, seeing that it was fairly simple, with a long table that was covered in all sorts of beakers and squeeze bottles. Located on the right side, all the way at the end, a man sat, holding a long pipette.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” The man asked at the table, as soon as the door behind her closed. “There’s no signal on mine.”

“What’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asked him in return, walking towards him.

“Hmm, I prefer to text.” He responded, like this was news everyone should have known.

“Sorry,” Mike Shrugged. “It’s in my coat.”

Joan looked from Mike to the stranger and back again. Mike didn’t seem like he was going to be fetching his coat anytime soon and the stranger was, apparently, waiting for her to say something.

“Um, here,” Joan requested, pulling her cell from her pocket. “I have mine. You’re free to use it if you want.”

“Oh,” The stranger replied, surprised. “Thank You.”

He rose from his seat and sauntered towards her, buttoning a button on his fitted suit jacket. Joan hadn’t met many people in her life, but almost everyone she met was either dressed really casually or dressed in some type of uniform. This guy with his fitted dress pants, crisp white shirt and fitted dress jacket was fine. His dark brown hair was curly but nicely put together, like it took him at least an hour to tame the unruliness that it was. When he reached her, he took the phone from her hands and she almost dropped it. The hand that took the phone from her was well manicured and pale, with long fingers a girl could dream about.

_He couldn’t be, could he?_

“Afghanistan or Iraq,” The man asked her, typing on her phone.

Joan looked at him then looked sideways at mike.

“I’m sor-“

“Which one was it: Afghanistan or Iraq?” He asked again, looking her in the eyes.

She blinked, confused.

“How did you-“

“Thank you,” He said suddenly, throwing the phone at her. She barely caught it in her hands as he walked back to his seat. “How do you feel about the violin?”

 _The Violin_ , Joan asked herself. _The hell does that have to do with anything_?

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking; sometimes I like to talk for days on in and…. Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst things about one another, don’t you agree?”

“Oh, I see,” Joan laughed dryly. She raised an eyebrow in Mike’s direction. “So, you’re telling all your friends about me?”

Mike looked as though he’d been accused of murder. “Not a word!”

“Okay, then who said anything to you,” She looked at the stranger again, “about flat mates?”

The man rose and picked up his coat. “I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be the most difficult man to find a flat mate for. Now, here he is, just after lunch, with a new friend apparently just returning home from America from military service in Afghanistan.”

He wrapped his scarf around his neck and smirked at her. “It wasn’t a difficult leap.”

Maybe it wasn’t a difficult leap for him but no one could know that from just looking at me, Joan thought. Her lips thinned and a corner rose in worry. Who the hell was this guy and how did he know so much about her? He had to have been the guy from the alley way the other night, he had to have been. All her information was in her purse, even her old military badge, and if this guy had it, he would know. The son of a-

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” Joan asked him.

“I’ve had my eye on a nice little place in central London,” The man ignored her. “Together we’d ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, 7 o’ clock.” He walked to her nodded. “Sorry, I’ve got to dash. I've left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

Joan’s mouth opened to respond but he dodged around her and headed for the door.

“Excuse me?” Joan called, turning around with a major attitude. She wasn’t going to take the thief’s shitty I know everything so I’m going to freak you out about it attitude. “Is that it?”

“Is that what?” He asked, attitude clearly proving he was taking no shit either.

“We’ve known each other, oh say, 5 minutes, and now we’re going to look at a place together? Don’t I at least get dinner first?”

The man looked at her then casted a glance at Mike, then back to her.

“Is that a problem?’

Joan smiled, non-believing. Seriously, she looked at mike and back at the man. He sees no problems with this, for real?

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name!”

The man looked her up and down once and she immediately regretted it. That is, until he spoke. He knew that she was an army doctor and she was home from service for an injury, he didn’t say what type so she was happy there was some mystery about her. He talked about Harry, not knowing that he was actually a she, and Harry’s past drinking problems. He even talked about her psychosomatic limp like it was news everyone knew and that she was silly for even asking him about it.

“It’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” He ended his deductions with, a bit too smugly for her taste.

 _Okay_ , Joan though standing there in shock. _So he’s pretty… brilliant but I still didn’t know who he is or his name._

He walked to the door and opened it. He started walking through it before he paused and simply said:

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 B Baker Street.”

He walked out the door and Joan wondered could she plead insanity if she were to murder a man she was potentially going to be moving in with.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to keep the story kinda close to the regular BBC show so yeah a couple sentences will be familiar to you who have seen them. But since i want to make this a completely different culture shock/thing, things will obviously be diffrent. More like "If i was Watson, what would I do/how would i react in this situation?"
> 
>  
> 
> Also,I will make a separate post with music that i will constantly add to on a separate chapter/series thing.  
> I have amazing taste and i know you will enjoy it if you have good taste.  
> *tosses back scarf and walks fashionably away only to trip over said scarf and fall face first into the ground*
> 
>  
> 
> (Also, if someone could encourage me to write chapters in order instead of writing chapters to other parts in haphazard sections, it would be greatly appreciated, thanks.)


	4. The Meeting 2: Sherlock Meets Joan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes has always been a type of silent creeper type of guy. When he sees the Heroine from the night before again, he starts feeling some type of way (like the song...)and he is strangely excited about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone reallllllyyyyy should remind me to not write other chapters for segments that don't even exist after I'm doing writing the beginning introductory chapters. This took way longer than it should have to write.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I'm still trying to stick to the main story but not at the same time to give it a different feel. To be honest i;m really not sure where I'm going with this. I have lots of thoughts for different chapters/segments/seperate stories and they kinda get jumbled before i can really put them together and type them out like i want.
> 
> What i'm trying to say is, If there is somethign that you think should be adressed or flled in, let me know. I am here for the people....)

Sherlock didn’t expect this. When he walked into Bart’s this morning to work on the case he’d been waiting on for two weeks, or what felt like two weeks, he didn’t expect to see her walk in through the door. Last night’s little mishap, getting attacked by those three idiots, was nothing that hadn’t happened to him before. He expected to get scuffed around a bit, slink home to lick his wounds, and then go back at it again the next night. He hadn’t expected a knight in shining armor.

She was small, but not in a childlike way, her obvious curves proved that. When she spoke, she was all attitude and confidence; she had done this many times before and apparently always came out on top. She leaned heavily on a cane but didn’t seem to have any real injury to her legs, as when she spoke she stood straighter, like she forgot she even had it.

Sherlock feared for her for a moment, a passerby looking to be a hero and getting much more than she bargained for, but when they attacked, he was impressed. She sent all three to the ground in the blink of an eye.

 _“Don’t let me catch you in this hood again or you’ll be_ feeling _me rather than_ hearing _me.”_

God! What woman spoke like that here in London? She had no real accent but from the way her grammar and the way she yelled he could tell she was American, maybe from one of the Southern States?

Hands on her full hips, like Super girl or whatever female heroes people believed in nowadays, He was hypnotized by the way the excitement and danger rolled off her, walking up behind her before he even knew what he was doing. Along the way he picked up her cane and the purse she dropped, stepped lightly behind her.

It was by the grace of his quick reflexes that he caught her fist before it went crashing through his chest, catching them both by surprise.

She stared at his chest for a moment, stunned, until she looked up into his face. He immediately regretted meeting her brown eyes, searching for his face in the alleyway light. Her full lips parted in surprise, and he wanted to do nothing more than feel what they felt like on his own. Her fist was all softness with strong muscle giving away its strength. Yes, she had done this many times before…too many.

 _A true fighter_ , He thought loosening his grip. What he wouldn’t give to feel a softer version of that grip on him…

“U-Um,” She started to stuttered, eyes shining bright. “Are you alright, sir?”

_O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art_

_As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,_

_As is a winged messenger of heaven_

_Unto the white, upturned, wondering eyes_

_Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him_

_When he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds_

_And sails upon the bosom of the air…._

Shakespeare, of all poets, Why did he think of that?

 

He couldn’t speak. For once in his life Sherlock Holmes was struck silent. What was happening? Who was this woman, all quiet poetry and power, only spoke 4 words and he thought his core would stop his blood altogether. He stepped away from her, letting go of that fisted hand. She brought it to her chest, fearful, but just as intrigued as he was. He lifted his hand, bringing up her beaten up cane, holding it out at arm’s length so she could take it.

 

She reached out to take it, body slightly leaning forward. The limp was showing itself again, reminded by the cane that she was hurt somehow. He held on to it tight, to be able to memorize her facial structure and her features: oval face, Egyptian nose, almond shaped cat eyes, short pixie cut hair. She stood up straight without her cane, he realized, like a solider.

 

 _An army woman,_ he realized. _Interesting…_.

 

She tugged slightly at the cane, brows furrowing at the fact he wouldn’t let it go. This evening was going better than he expected. He let go of the cane suddenly, giving her a jolt that almost sent her backwards, and glided past her as she recovered.

 

“Wait! Wait a minute!” She called out behind him.

He had kept walking, palming her small purse against his stomach. He turned sharply around the next corner and peeked out back in her direction.

Since the street was so dark, her eyes couldn’t see the fact that he wasn’t 20 feet in front of her. Years of prowling London streets gave him the 20/20 night vision he came to appreciate, so he saw her worried face as she looked out at him. She walked back and forth a bit, apparently looking for the handbag in his hand.

“Dammit!” She yelled, kicking the ground with her left foot. Mumbling angrily to herself, she walked in the opposite direction she came from, and he had to hold himself back from following her.

 

When he returned to his dingy flat, he wasted no time in going through the spoils of his encounter. Opening the bag, he dumped the contents onto his table. The woman seemed to have come to London prepared to be attacked, a mini pocket knife, flashlight and a bottle of pepper spray told him that. There weren’t any really womanly products inside like he usually found in the handbags of the women who came to his flat, no womanly tampons or sticky lip-glosses and lipsticks. There was a simple tube of lip balm and a passport, a return plane ticket, a pack of Stride Sour Patch Kids Red berry gum.

Opening the passport, an infectious toothy grin met his eye and he couldn’t help but smile back.

Joan Watson was the name written on it and it gave her date of birth and place: Nashville, Tennessee. A quick search of the place proved him right, a city in a state slightly to the south. There was something that tickled him about this fact, the fact that she was so far away from home was interesting. He read everything he could from the things in her purse, filing them away in his mind palace for any reason or another.

Even more interesting enough, he had wanted to see her again. He wanted her to come looking for him with the wrath of Hades, angelic and dangerous. Maybe he could look for her himself, pretend that he came across her bag in some alley way or something. He could play the kind pedestrian returning a lost… something to a lost person.

No, no, too obvious. She’d see right through him probably. She looked like someone who could.

Or maybe he could get Mycroft to look into her for him, telling him it’s for a case of a…missing woman?

No, no, too obvious. Mycroft would see right through it then he’d never hear the end of it.

He thought about the ways of luring her to him straight into the early morning, early dawn peeking its way through his closed curtains.

After a quick shower, Sherlock dressed and made his way to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital to continue work on his current case. He had glided into the morgue, coat swirling out behind him. The current case he was working on was one that a man had been killed, a riding crop being used before, and a man’s alibi depended on it. He pulled out the riding crop he brought with him, bought from a sex shop long ago for another case, and got to work whipping marks on the chest. Leaving the morgue, telling the pathology tech working that he needed to know what types of marks developed as he waited in a lab on the upper level.

He was finishing up an experiment he was killing time doing when she walked through the door, following behind Mike Stamford, and his heart nearly stopped in his chest. She hobbled in, looking around in mute amazement.

“It’s a bit different from my day.” Joan told Mike, giving him a shy smile. She glanced in Sherlock’s direction for a second before looking back at Mike. Keeping his face carefully turned away, he asked to see Mike’s phone, testing to see what she would do.

 _Does she know about her purse? Does she recognize me?_ He secretly hoped she did.

Joan had looked between the two men, obvious to the fact that neither man was going to assist the other, and asked if she wanted to use hers. She said nothing about her purse, probably hiding the fact that she had lost it from Mike. Her having to admit it was gone with her passport being in it would have caused her to look bad in Mike’s eyes and for personal experience, looking bad in Mike’s eyes would have caused him to fret and spend money he didn’t have to try and help her out, and with that wife of his….

All in all, it was thrilling being in her presence again. She was still calm and collected, but this time bags under her eyes let him know she had had a bad night. Seeing her in the light he could read her military career, her short cut reminding her of the way the men wear theirs and her straight stance. Standing by her and pretending to text, he instead looking for her phone number to memorize and use later. He didn’t care about anything else in it but did a quick look through anyway. The phone was a newer model, came out in the past 6 months, so he was able to look through her non-existent contact and empty text message lists fairly quickly in the short amount of time he held it. He quickly deduced about her brother and his drinking habits from holding it. He was happy he had talked to Mike the day before about needing a flat mate for the place he wanted to get in downtown London. If he believed in God, he would have thanked him or her for this.

_“We’ve known each other, oh say, 5 minutes, and now we’re going to look at a place together? Don’t I at least get dinner first?”_

She was utterly shocked at his correct deductions but not offended by them; in fact, she seemed annoyed at the fact he could read into them like he did. What she didn’t know was that he could do more than that and given the chance…

_“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name!”_

_“I know you’re an army doctor who’s done service in Afghanistan and you’ve been invalid from. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic. More likely because he recently walked out on his wife and I know your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic, quite correctly I’m afraid. It’s enough to be going with, don’t you think?”_

_“The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.”_

After telling her the address to meet ay, he clicked his tongue, giving her a flirty wink.

Back at his flat, he started pulling out his old cardboard boxes, and started packing, remembering the look on her face. She stood there looking at him after he winked at her, stunned, like she didn’t know what she was getting into.

He could get used to causing a face like that.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank You for reading. 
> 
>  
> 
> (FYI: The Shakespeare is from Romeo and Juliet, the 'Wherefore art thou Romeo?' part that's always put in some romance story....of course not mine '>_> (Thank You Sparknotes))
> 
> Please check out My Other Page Interracial Sherlock: The Musical Play for some music to assist your reading (link below)!
> 
>  
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/2956823


	5. SH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan has an interesting conversation with Sherlock Holmes via text message and feels some feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda short and if this cliffhanger chapter doesn't make a lot of sense, it will in the next. Promise.
> 
> (Special thanks to alchymyst for input and suggestions. I hope that fixing those mistakes and this chapter will make you proud.)

“That was really…. That was the craziest thing… I’ve ever done,” Joan gasped, leaning against the wall in the foyer of 221B Baker Street. Running away from that police officer disintegrated the last bit of strength she had left from chasing the cabbie in the first place. ‘I can’t believe I…still had the energy to…do something like that…after last night.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

Joan had stayed up nearly all night texting the mysterious Sherlock Holmes. That strange encounter had left her curious and interested. Surely that was the man from last night, right? That coat was so damn familiar and that height. Who would easily forget a man that tall, walking like a runway model. Of course, there were a lot of tall good looking men here in London, they were pretty much everywhere if you took the time to look, she had passed them all while limping back to the hotel, seeing them but not really giving them a second glance.

But those hands, those were the real clues. Few men on earth had hands like those, surely, all womanly, delicate and… not very manly at all. A scientist hands, maybe. Or more likely a musicians, as he had said he played the violin earlier.

Joan did a quick google search of his name and up popped the website The Science of Deduction. Clicking on it, she searched a bit, clumsy with the new computer of she bought from the pawn shop before she left home. She was never really technology savvy, took her years before she could use the DVD player correctly with the remote, and somehow she ended up on his forum. He had made a post a few minute ago:

SH_ _Do not send post to my Montague Street address. Disagreement with landlord. No longer there. New address to follow._

New address to follow?! So he hadn’t moved into the Baker Street place then, apparently waiting for her to move in too. Then the real question made its appearance: Why would he think she would move in with him in the first place? Unless…

“That bastard really does have my purse!” She yelled, slamming the side of her fist down on the desk.

She thought about ways to give him a piece of her mind her phone vibrated.

 _If brother has green ladder arrest brother-_ SH

Great. Just the person she wanted to cuss out. She pulled out a pen and paper from the desk drawer, writing down the number the message came from. The number was the same one posted on the website. Calling it, she took off her shoes and socks, moving upwards to strip for the shower that was calling her name. The phone rang and rang and rang, until it was finally cut off.

Not really one to pester, she hung up and made her way to the bathroom. After her shower, she pulled out her pajamas for the night, a plain black button up night shirtand a pair of red pajama pants, cut into to booty shorts. Dressed, she plopped down on her stomach on the bed and picked up her phone.

< _7:00PM:_ 1 _NEW text message_ >

 _I prefer to text Joan. I am pretty sure I have already told you that._ –SH

“Well, I’ll be damned.” She put down her bottle and responded, getting her fingers used to the tiny buttons.

_Well excuse me for being old fashioned and preferring to hear the voice of the person who texts me weird messages._

She sent the message. By the time she finished lotioning herself, he had messaged back.

 _Old fashioned you say. I say technologically challenged. As for the message, it was my mistake. I meant to send it to someone else_ –SH

_Oh really. Then how did you even get my number in your phone I positive I didn’t give it to you_

_Of course you didn’t. I memorized it before I sent the text earlier_ –SH

_Why are you adding those sh to your texts_

_Why aren’t you adding_ JW _to yours?_ -SH

_Why would I?_

_For protection, a type of just in case, if you will_ –SH

_Just in case, what?_

_Something happens…_ –SH

_Oh I see. That way if you don’t add it someone will know something wrong_

_Smart Girl. I knew there was a reason I liked you._ –SH

That caught her off guard. So, he felt something too, when they met. Did he feel it when they met in that alleyway? Wait. Was this admitting there was a connection between them?

_So you like me huh._

_As much as I can like a person, I suppose._ –SH

 _And do you often like people._ –JW

 _No. –_ SH

No. A short and to the point answer that was surprisingly sad.

_Well I suppose I should feel lucky about something like this_

_You should –_ SH

_Well then since we have begun our stroll down the honesty trail I think its time youre honest with me…_

_Yes I have your handbag –_ SH

Well damn. She didn’t expect him to all out tell on himself like that. Who even does that? She was had started to write that when another message popped up in its place.

 _I was hoping to give it back to you one day_ –SH

_When_

_After we’re married_ –SH

Joan the snort that came out of her was so sudden she nearly choked on it. Then, in the midst of her building laugher, Joan replied.

_You seem so confident about that Mister. Im going to need that back so I can leave._

_Why I –SH_

_What do you mean why? I have a home to go to that’s far away from here and a very angry phone call to make when I get there_

_Oh, the medical conference you were supposed to attend_ –SH

_Yeah. How you know about that_

_Mike._ –SH

Of course Mike would have told him.

_And what else did Mike tell you._

_That you need a new start, preferably someplace where the ghosts of your past wont haunt your nightmares as easily as they do._ –SH

Joan froze. How’d he know about her dreams? Surely he couldn’t know anything, not really. Okay, so maybe the shitty way her faced looked, like she had been on an undercover mission for two centuries with no sleep probably gave it away. Still, she was curious… and impressed…but mostly curious.

But then again, it wasn’t like she was going to tell him that.

_If you know so much about it maybe you can tell me why the conference was cancelled without them getting in touch with anyone_

He was quiet after that.

“Oh, cat got your tongue now Mr. Holmes,” Joan taunted at her phone. “Let me guess, you have to google it to find out. Well guess what. I’ve already done that and it tells me nothing.”

A few minutes later, as Joan had sat at her computer and tried to come up with a good blog post, her phone vibrated on the bed..

_One of the women in charge of media for it has gone missing-_

Someone is missing? If someone was missing, surely they would have had the news people, or the media or whatever, report it surely? The y wouldn’t have had it cancelled without a second thought as to all the people who bought tickets and went without food or had to temporarily move in with their parents to make it, right? She did a quick internet search and found nothing about it. In addition, surprising in these turn of events, the conference website had vanished too.

_The website is gone. Why didn’t they tell anyone_

Sherlock was quiet for another few minutes.

 _They did._ –SH

_They didn’t tell me._

_You don’t matter._ –SH

Well that was honesty in a nutshell. Joan felt like she should be mad about this, not saying she wasn’t but, at the same time she felt she knew the reason. I mean, after all, the people who didn’t have to scrounge up their last few pennies definitely weren’t little black girls from the south. They were powerful rich white people with noses stuck in the air and hands in everyone else’s pockets.

Before Joan could reply again, Sherlock did first.

_When I say you don’t matter I actually mean authority wise. You don’t have a big status in a hospital or business. The individuals they have told are the primary shareholders and those higher up bosses you work for. Don’t think of it as a racial issue, it isn’t-_

How did he-

_I didn’t say it was a racial issue_

_You don’t have to. Your pause tells me all I need to know. Besides, your money has been returned to your bank account and you are free to spend it as you please._ –SH

_How did you know all this._

_Let’s just say I have a… connection to someone in the British Government_ –SH

That’s right. He did say he was a consulting detective of some sort.

_Oh okay. So big brother has an eye out for you and you have one out for him._

_In a sense, yes he does. I’ve never heard it put out that way though._ –SH

_Living in the south, you hear lots of things you don’t hear everyday_

_I can’t wait to hear them_ –SH

This smooth bastard… _He really thinks I’m moving in with him_ , Joan mused.

_I’m not staying here or with you for that matter. Hell, I should really stop texting you._

_Why?_ –SH

_Because im talking to you like Im dating you_

_You could be_ –SH

_You couldn’t handle me_

_Try me._ –SH

Afterwards, it just became a strange on and off again thing, Sherlock saying something dipped in a flirtatious code and Joan trying to figure it out, trying to do the same.

 _You ask a lot of questions._ –SH

_Only because you seem to have all the answers_

_How very interesting of you_ –SH

_You think I’m interesting_

_Not really. But_ _I’m positive you feel something for me as well_ –SH

_Listen to us going back and forth like this. How old are we. No scratch that actually how old are you_

_Meet me tomorrow and you’ll find out_ –SH

He was obviously more gifted at it than she was, as she had to take a few minutes each time to respond, and before she knew it, she was opening her eyes to the rays of the morning’s sunshine through the hotel room window. Joan stretched, wondering why it felt like an enormous weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. Placing her hands back down to her sides, a hand rested on top of her phone. That’s right; she was talking to Sherlock before she went to bed, well in her case fell asleep, trying to come up with clever comebacks. She lifted it up to her face and pressed a button.

< _12:59PM:_ 1 _NEW text message_ >

 _Goodnight Joan. See you tomorrow_ –SH

Today is going to be a good day.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

Now, nearly 15 hours later, Joan and Sherlock stand side by side, out of breath after going to a crime scene, having an interesting date and dashing around London chasing cabs like Batman and Robin.

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock scolded jokingly, causing them both too laugh wholeheartedly, albeit breathlessly.

“That wasn’t just me though!” She joked, punching him lightly in the arm. Taking a few more breaths, she asked “So, why aren’t we back at the restaurant?”

Sherlock waved his hand, brushing the thought away. “Watching from there was a long shot. They can keep an eye out for me…while I’m here.”

“So what were we doing there?” Joan asked, body leaning slightly against Sherlock’s. Her legs were numb from the winter air and now they were slowly warming up, the exhaustion in them started to set in. His thin but solid form was another nice wall to lean upon.

There seemed to be no complaints from him either. Sherlock’s body leaned against hers as well and together they held each other up.

“Oh, just passing the time,” He responded, clearing his throat. “And proving a point…”

“What point?” Joan asked, looking up at him.

“You... Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock yelled, looking towards the older lady’s apartment. “Dr. Watson will be taking the room upstairs.”

He looked down at her as he said that last part, eyes bright and shining from the lasting thrill of the evening. The smile on his face caused her grin to grow several sizes and she laughed again, happily caught up in the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i still don't have a concrete direction for this story yet but I'm getting there. I am seriously feeling the winter blues something fierce right now so I'm not updating like i originally planned to. But on a brighter note, i have the next two chapters in the works so they will probably be posted on the same day. Yaaayyy!!


	6. SH 2: Emma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is excited for his new move, and tries to convince his soon to be flatmate that this is a good idea. In the meantime, he gets some help moving from a small friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (New character alert! Emma is from Emma meets Greg by Enid_Black here on A03  
> ( http://archiveofourown.org/works/2637806 )!! Thanks again and i can't wait to start using her more often!

Emma

Sherlock Holmes’ day had started at 6 am the previous morning and was still continuing late the next day.

At first, his day before was top speed. He had spent the day at the lab, followed a few clues, got hassled by a couple of street muggers, where he was all but rescued by G.I Jane, went home to take a shower and to patch his nonexistent wounds, went back to the lab, did a couple of experiments to test out a theory on how a man died, got back to the lab, where he had the lovely run in with said G.I Jane, then where he sped back home to his now defunct Montague address where he all but gave the landlord a big ‘Fuck You’ cake and started packing his belonging, giving his brother a call for assistance.

“So you’re asking me for help,” His brother inquired, slightly annoyed. “I thought you said you’d lose your testicles before you’d do something like that.”

“Oh, Shut up,” He growled back, trying to jam another 6 books into a now overstuffed box. “I just need you to get these over to Baker Street before 6am tomorrow morning. I already have just about everything packed up so will you please get off your ever growing arse and get these over there before I jump off the roof of this building.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, brother mine,” His brother responded, smugly. “Remember what happened last time.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. Dammit. He _would_ bring that up again, wouldn’t he?

“I did it for you and you know it. Hell, you were just as instrumental in bringing him down as well.”

His brother gave a quick ‘humph’ and then said, “I’m sending a few men over now. Have everything ready to go and I’ll send someone over to bring you here.”

“Why?”

“Because you have been staying here,” His brother replied slowly, like Sherlock was still the only idiot in the household. So happy they were forced out into the world with other people to prove that wasn’t so.

“No, need anymore,” Sherlock said quickly, trying to not dwell on their childhood. “I won’t be staying there from now on so you won’t have to do me any more favors.”

“Oh, gooood,” His brother responded, a little too happily for his taste. “That means you’ll be free to act on those favors you owe _me_ , brother.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Of course you won’t. I’ll be seeing you soon, Sherlock.”

“How about you choke on the biscuit I know you’re currently eating and save us both the trouble.”

“Ta for now.” And then the line went dead. Sherlock had to use every muscle in his body to sit still and not set the phone on fire then toss it out the window.

A few hours later, the Montague house finally barren, he commanded his movers to put each and every box where they belonged in 221B.

“Make sure you idiots are careful with my equipment!” Sherlock yelled, placing a box on the sitting room floor. A crew of 20 men had quickly moved his belonging into the new flat from the old, loading and unloading boxes to their respectful places.

He buzzed around them like a queen bee, busily ordering his worker bees to do this and that.

“Place these boxes in the kitchen.”

“Watch what you’re doing with those jars! They’re experiments!”

“Just put those there, there, and there….now get _OUT_!”

And just like that, everyone was gone. The men silently left the Baker Street flat, obviously paid enough to deal with him but not enough to want to stay longer, and Sherlock collapsed onto his sofa, completely exhausted.

“I don’t believe this,” He sighed ad looked around the room. A various amount of boxes were stuffed into the small area. Unkempt boxes were placed here, there and yonder, all looking like a child had unpacked them, looking for their favorite toy. Sherlock sighed heavily and rubbed at his forehead. He slowly felt his energy slipping from him and now all he wanted to do was close his eyes and…

The front door opened downstairs and Sherlock’s eyes suddenly shot open, on guard. He sat still and unmoving, listening closely to the small set of footprints making their way up to the flat. Rolling his eyes, he slunk back down onto the couch and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.

“What do you want, Emma?” He asked, grumbling. “I’m busy.”

“Yes, I can see that,” A small feminine voice called out to him from the top stair. A small little girl stepped quietly into the now nearly crowded flat. Her long blond hair was waved and long, flowing down from the black cap resting like a dark halo on her head. Her light blue grey eyes, hidden under carefully cut bangs, wandered around the room, taking in everything.

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking a nap or something?” Sherlock teased her, watching her little form wander around the walkable path in the room. She wore a black and white checkered dress, black tights and new patent leather shoes. An obviously new ensemble for the child his brother dressed up like a porcelain doll.

“Yes, but father said he was bestowing upon me a wonderful mission that no one but me could accomplish.” Emma responded, climbing her little form into Sherlock's chair and sitting in it. Her short legs swung happily in the air beneath it. “I am here to assist you in cleaning up your dreadful new home of residence until he comes to get me.”

Sherlock groaned and pulled himself from the couch, an action that made him feel older than he was. He maneuvered his way towards the girl, and plopped himself down in the easy chair opposite her.

“What have I told you about sitting in my chair, niece?” he asked her, venom spitting out that he didn’t feel.

“Uncle Sherlock,” Emma sighed, placing her chin in her palms, elbows resting on her knees. “This is not about silly chairs; it’s about you getting your home together.”

"What for?” He asked, rolling his eyes and looking down at the fireplace in the room. He should probably get some firewood for it before it got colder.

“For your new arrival, of course,” She responded, a little too happily for his taste. “I’ve seen you on the CCTVs and hospital cameras.”

“So your father has been spying on me more than usual, huh.” Sherlock told her, annoyed but not surprised. If there was anyone he could trade places with, he would. Having an older brother was bad enough, having one in the Government who acted like he _was_ the government was even worse.

“Nope,” She responded shortly, sitting up straight and kicking her legs higher, back and forth happily. “Just itty bitty me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, a feat he was finding now slightly difficult now that some unsought exhaustion was trying to set in. He lifted his nimble figure from his chair and went to a box in the kitchen, unloading it of the few dishes and glasses he owned.

“I think she’s very cute,” Emma called from her still seated position. “Her hair is cute short, like a pixie. She’s like a dark skinned fairy, but...not.”

Sherlock tried to ignore her, finishing his box he opened another one.

“Too bad about her psychosomatic limp though…she’d be even cuter if she walked without it. And her fashion sense could use a little work too, that jumper she wore today. I wanted to wrench it off her myself and burn it!”

Sherlock got through another two boxes before he responded to her.

“Emma, could you please tell me what the _point_ of you is?” Sherlock nearly shouted, annoyed.

Emma shrugged, clearly pleased. “Nothing at all, my dearest uncle. I am merely here to keep you company till father finishes his business for the day.

“I thought you said you were here to help me unpack?”

“Hmmm, I lied.” She tilted her head to the side and gave him an almost lethal smile. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and was nearly ready to toss her out the window when he remembered something.

“Dammit,” He mumbled to himself, heading out to his bedroom. In the excitement of the day, Sherlock had forgotten to text the Detective Inspector the clue to solve his case. Rubbing at his eyes, he sent a message:

 _If brother has green ladder arrest brother-_ SH

He stuck the phone back in his pocket, and moved back to the sitting room where Emma had started unpacking a box of dusty books to place on the barren bookshelves set on each side of the fireplace.

“What are you doing?” He asked, coming up to stand behind her. She turned around quickly, the move making her long hair twirl in midair like a ballerina, the classes obviously doing her well.

Holding a few books in one hand and holding another up in the opposite, Emma responded.

“Putting books away,” She said innocently. In her youthful voice, the ‘you idiot’ was implied.

“I thought you changed your mind about helping.” Sherlock responded wryly, taking more books from her open box and placing them on the above shelves she couldn’t get to. “You don’t want to get your new dress dirty.”

“I did. Now I’ve changed my mind again, but I am thankful you are appreciative of my wonderful fashion.” She did a slight curtsy.

His phone started ringing right as he moved to take out another pile of books when his phone began to ring. Throwing the books back down into the box, he yanked his phone out of his pocket to look at the screen.

‘Joan Watson’ was written in digitized white, clear as day on the screen.

“Why would you…” He started to ask before the ringing stopped. Quickly, he went back to his messages, and face palmed himself when he realized the message he sent to the DI, in his sleepy haze, he had sent to her instead. He thought about calling her back and explaining things, but he was too interested in not too. He looked back at Emma who was humming a song to herself and placing more books on the shelf.

“I’ll be right back,” Sherlock told her hastily, closing the door to the flat then moving towards his new bedroom down the hall.

Emma looked back at him questioningly as he closed the door to the room.

 _I prefer to text Joan. I am pretty sure I have already told you that._ –SH

He sent the text as he moved a single box of books from his bed and sat crossed legged on it. The room was empty except for a bookshelf, his bedside table and his newly made bed, which, for some reason, was the only thing he cared about enough to make a priority in the new home. His phone dinged:

_Well excuse me for being old fashioned and preferring to hear the voice of the person who texts me weird messages._

Perfect. He had hoped she would respond. And she did, after every message he sent:

 _Old fashioned you say. I say technologically challenged. As for the message, it was my mistake. I meant to send it to someone else_ –SH

_Oh really. Then how did you even get my number in your phone I positive I didn’t give it to you_

_Of course you didn’t. I memorized it before I sent the text earlier_ –SH

_Why are you adding those sh to your texts?_

_Why aren’t you adding_ JW _to yours?_ -SH

_Why would I?_

_For protection, a type of just in case, if you will_ –SH

_Just in case, what?_

_Something happens…_ –SH

_Oh I see. That way if you don’t add it someone will know something wrong_

_Smart Girl. I knew there was a reason I liked you._ –SH

After he sent that last message, he immediately felt that he should regret it. He flung himself backwards on the bed and kicked like a 2 year old, quietly cursing himself.

 _Now she’s going to think I’m a creep_ , He thought. _Not that I’m thought of like that daily_. The morons at Scotland Yard always had but he didn’t want to be thought of like that now, at least not by her. Saving him from having an aneurism, she responded.

_So you like me huh._

He stared at the message in confusion. There didn’t seem to be any scorn in the message but that didn’t mean she wasn’t freaked out by it. How he wished she was sitting in front of him now, so that he could see her expressions.

 _As much as I can like a person, I suppose._ –SH

_And do you often like people._

_No. –_ SH

Afterwards, he spent nearly the entire night answering her questions and getting caught up on some nearly close calls.

 _Yes I have your handbag –_ SH

 _I was hoping to give it back to you one day_ –SH

_When_

_After we’re married_ –SH

He had been joking when he said that but now that it was in his face; he really had to take a second look at it. Marriage. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a man who got ‘married’, let alone someone who ‘dated’. The last time he took a woman out on a date, he exposed the fact she was a serial adulterer who’s boss was going to rend her redundant if the photos she sent out of him and her in Cancun were released to the public. Of course that got him a glass of wine in the face, but luckily he had purchased the cheapest bottle so everyone nearly went home happy that night.

Of course, he wasn’t going to tell her about that. There was a gentle knock door on his bedroom and before he could speak, Emma popped her little head through the door.

“I can’t reach the top shelves,” She told him, walking in. Her chest and sleeves to her dress were covered in a light layer of dust, and her hat had been taken off sometime in the few minutes he had left.

“What do you know about the medical conference that’s in town this week?” He asked her, walking back into the sitting room. A light had been turned on in the corner of the room; Sherlock noticed as Emma picked a couple of books off of the chair she had placed them in,

“Uhmmm,” Emma thought as Sherlock stepped behind her to place books on the top shelf. “I know father said that something important was canceled this week, but I’m not sure why. That could be what you’re talking about. Why?”

He put her down after her arms were empty and after she gathered more, he picked her up again.

“My new flat mate was supposed to be going to it but it was cancelled without her being told. Why?”

“I think it had something to do with a lady in charge of media who’s gone missing,” She told him, patting his hands to let him know she was done. She went back to the box and started tearing it down. “This box is empty now. Open another for me please.”  

The two of them managed to fill up his bookshelves; all the while Sherlock took mini breaks to text Joan. He let it slip out the fact that he knew that she was in town for the medical conference and when she asked how she knew, he had simply told her that Mike told him. A few more texts went though as Sherlock and Emma made their way into the kitchen, setting up Sherlock’s science equipment on the table.

_How did you know all this._

_Let’s just say I have a… connection to someone in the British Government_ –SH

_Oh okay. So big brother has an eye out for you and you have one out for him._

Sherlock laughed out loud at that, causing Emma to send him an inquisitive look. He cleared his throat and picked up a box, bringing it to the sitting room. He sat down on the sofa and hid his phone behind the box, pretending to unpack it. If only she knew…

 _In a sense, yes he does. I’ve never heard it put out that way though._ –SH

_Living in the south, you hear lots of things you don’t hear everyday_

_I can’t wait to hear them_ –SH

_I’m not staying here or with you for that matter. Hell, I should really stop texting you._

_Why?_ –SH

_Because I’m talking to you like I'm dating you_

_You could be_ –SH

_You couldn’t handle me_

_Try me._ –SH

_I’m telling yo no. I hope you really don’t expect me to move in with you_

_Of course I do, only if you want your lovely handbag back though. It’s a nice expensive brand, came out only 6 months ago._ –SH

_Oh really. I didn’t know that. I got it at a thrift store before I left home. Lucky me to not only be hit on by a thief but also a fashionably thief_

_I am not a thief. I happened to forget to give it to you before I left that evening._ –SH

_Liar._

Sherlock gave a wide smile at that last bit. So, Joan Watson wasn’t as big of an idiot as he had coined her out to be.

 _Ah, I’m caught_ –SH

_You’re not so dangerous. I could handle anything you threw at me._

_Is that so?_ –SH

_Of course I’ve dealt with twelve year old's more deadly than you_

_I am ashamed. I shall now go into my bedroom and cry over the fact that I have been out-criminalized by 12 year old's._ –SH

_I’m too tired to come back with something for that silly sentence of bullshit so I will just sit here and laugh. What kind of man are you Sherlock Holmes_

That was a question he had been asking himself for years now. But then again, what type of woman was Joan Watson?

 _You ask a lot of questions._ –SH

_Only because you seem to have all the answers_

_How very interesting of you_ –SH

_You think I’m interesting_

_Not really. But_ _I’m positive you feel something for me as well_ –SH

_Listen to us going back and forth like this. How old are we. No scratch that actually how old are you_

_Meet me tomorrow and you’ll find out_ –SH

“I’m absolutely exhausted.” Emma sighed, walking back into the sitting room. She clambered her way back into Sherlock’s seat and lazily leaned back into it. Sherlock gingerly placed his phone back into his pocket.

“Isn’t it about time for you to go to bed?” Sherlock asked, making his way back across the room. “I do believe four year old's have bedtimes.”

“Once again, I’m six and a half,” Emma retorted annoyed. She looked like she attempted to shoot him a dirty look but rubbing her sleepy eyes made that impossible. “I would appreciate it if you would remember that. What ever happened to you texting your new flat mate? Did she get tired of you already?”

Sherlock glanced at her.

“No,” He informed her. “It’s semi late. She had said she was tired so she’s probably fallen asleep.”

“Oh, well.” Emma yawned and stretched, sliding herself from her chair. “I think I’ll rest for a while until father comes to get me. I assume your bed is clean?”

“Why would you assume it wouldn’t be?”

Emma gave him a ‘you have to be kidding me’ look and then turned her head to look around the room. Though the two of them made good progress in the few hours they had been there, the flat was still a mess with half open boxes and miscellaneous glasses, jars and Knick knacks laying everywhere. Sherlock eyed his skull sitting on top of a closed box on the floor near him. He reached over and grasped it, standing to put it on top of the mantle above the fireplace.

“I’ll have it in a better state by daylight.” He said, waving a hand in her direction. “Go one to sleep. Three year old's have no business up so late.”

“I’m six and a half!” She cried, stomping a well dressed foot on the ground. Sherlock shrugged and Emma stomped her way back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Amused, he pulled out his cell phone and sent out a last message for the evening to Joan:

 _Goodnight Joan. See you tomorrow_ –SH

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sense? I hoped so...


	7. The Lady and the Phone Booth Espionage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan stopped by a crime scene with Sherlock and was inconveniently left behind. 
> 
> Conveniently for her, however, a mode of transportation arrives and Joan makes up her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONGER CHAPTERRRRR!!! It took me about 3 days and 12 hours to write because i am a professional  
> You welcome.
> 
> ((Once again Emma is from Enid_Black's Emma meets Greg and is used with permission from the original artist. I gave a lot of description this chapter, well at least i hope i did, to describe how adorably wicked the child can be. And how also adorably cute. like totes adorbs. So sweet you have to have dentures made. I also like to think of her as a Lolita fashioned child, because they carry umbrellas and obviously......anyway, Clothing description can be found in the bottom notes!))

Joan couldn’t believe her eyes. When she woke up that beautiful morning, she was excited to start her day. After reading the last text message from Sherlock Holmes, she giddily rose from the bed to take a shower.

“I like the way you comb your hair, and I like the stylish clothes you wear!” She had sung, crowing out El DeBarge into a bar of soap. When she got out, wrapped in a towel, she had wiped the steam from the mirror and didn’t recognize the person she saw in the mirror.

The woman she had seen wore the biggest, goofiest grin on her face. Her brown eyes were bright and excited, nearly squinted from her flushed, full cheeks.

“I look I’ve just been asked on a date,” She had laughed aloud, pinching her cheeks. “Look at me!”

Joan had taken her hands from her face and let the fall limp to her sides, closed her eyes, and took a few deep breaths.

“Okay, Okay Joan,” She told herself quietly, wrapping a towel around herself. “This is not a permanent thing, J. You’re just going to the place and look around. You’re going to go there and tell him no, let him down gently. Stay confident and firm. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes but I mist regretfully decline you’re kind offer. Unfortunately, this is not what I’ve come to London for. I shall be today leaving today and there is nothing that could get me to stay, nothing at all. Thank you for your time.’”

Opening her eyes, the person in the mirror didn’t look believing at all. She looked like she was going to stay in London and live with the mysterious Sherlock Holmes and possibly….marry him. Nononon _ononoNONONONO! NO!_

“I’m losing my mind,” She mumbled laughing at herself; she took her toothbrush and wet it under the running tap, putting toothpaste on it. “I can’t get sidetracked. It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’m _perfectly_ fine.”

Later on, she realizes, maybe she should have just stayed in the bathroom. Or maybe she should have gave herself a longer pep talk because now, with the door open, Sherlock Holmes stood there, in her room, with his eyes staring into hers.

“Umm,” She mumbled around the toothbrush, absolutely in shock.

“You’re a doctor,” He said simply, eyes never leaving here. “In fact, you’re an army doctor.”

“Yesh,” She mumbled around the toothbrush again. He smirked and she horridly took it from her mouth while simultaneously trying not to burst into flames of embarrassment about the toothpaste smothered over her lips. She gripped the top edge of her towel tighter to her breasts.

“Any good?”

She cleared her throat, “Very good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries, then,” He started walking towards her then, and she felt less self-conscious about her lack of clothes than she should have. “Violent deaths…”

“Hmmm, yes...”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

“Yes of course, enough… for a lifetime, far too much.”

His presence seemed to swallow every bit of air from her lungs, but she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t seem to want to question the way he got into her room, or how he found out where she was for that matter. She didn’t question why he came to her asking these questions, or why they were so important. The only thing that mattered was that he was there and if he wanted anything from her…

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh god, yes…”

The sinfully mischievous smile that slowly crept on his face was unholy. It was at this time that he took a quick glace down at her chest, and Joan became all too obvious of her lack of clothing.

“I…uh,” She stuttered, trying to inch her way around him. “I have to uh…my clothes.”

He backed away slowly from her, and twirled around, causing the bottom of his cloak to make a perfect curve in the air.

“Quickly,” He replied straightforwardly and opened the door. Turning around to wink, _wink_ , at her, he whispered, “I’ll be waiting.”

Joan had never dressed faster in her entire life.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 _I am literally gonna’ die_ , Joan thought after a few minutes of silence in the taxi. The two of them sat in absolute silence while Sherlock did something on his phone. Every once in a while, taking a break from wondering where the hell he was taking her looking out the windows, she would glance or look in his direction, wanting to speak but feeling so nervous about it.

 _Just tell him Joan_ , she urged herself, attempting to coach herself into the talk she knew had to happen or it never would. _Tell him the truth. Mr. Holmes I can’t stay. Sherlock, I…_

“Okay, you’ve got questions,” He said, giving out a big sigh.

Instead of having that talk, she asked, “Where are we going?”

“Crime scene, next,” Oh, so he was giving her interview answers. Well…

“Who are you, really? What do you do at crime scenes?” Obviously, she knew who he was: Mr. ‘Swirly Coat and Cheekbones’. She looked out the window to keep from laughing at her joke aloud. “I don’t think you’re actually a cop…”

“What do you think?”

“I’d say private detective…at least that’s what Mike hinted me towards.”

“But…” He must have realized she was onto his game.

“The police don’t go to private detectives.” She looked at his face then, his side profile showing the smile widening on his face.

“I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world, I invented the job.”

“Oh really; then, what does that mean?”

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is _always_ , they consult me.”

Joan chuckled lightly at that. It wasn’t like he was good enough to be considered to get them a cup of coffee, let alone to consult on anything. Right?

“The police don’t consult amateurs.”

He looked at her seriously then, and after a quiet moment, back out the window.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

There had been a lady face down in the middle of the floor of an abandoned house. Face down and _dead_. Neither of these were what Joan had expected when she left the cab with Sherlock Holmes that afternoon, she also didn’t expect for him to ask her what she thought, call on her like a damn schoolgirl in a science class. But the main thing that took the cake that afternoon, as the sun started to set, was having to limp down a random London road in some random part of London, finding a way to get back to Sherlock “I’m a fucking brilliant genius but also a fantastic asshole” Holmes, wherever the hell he may or may not be. She wouldn’t have minded if he didn’t just run off like a lunatic, getting a different view of England was what any tourist would do right? But the fact that she had gone to a crime scene, an actual crime scene with police and a dead body, nearly bothered her as much as dealing with Sally Donovan and Anderson. Anderson and Donovan were obviously, well only to Sherlock apparently, sleeping together, even though Anderson was, or is, married.

Joan held back the embarrassing laugh while they shot her dirty looks.

Sherlock looked like the cat that got the cream.

Donovan, as people on the force liked to call her apparently, was the only black girl Joan had seen up close since being in town, and she knew right away that if any other women in town treated people like the way she treated Sherlock, she and the rest of the town were gonna have some problems.

“You’re not his friend,” Donovan had said to her as she walked under the police tape to get to the main road. Joan hadn’t wanted to, a strong not want to, ask her but everyone else there was either busy coming in and out of the building or was busy being far away from her. She ended up asking Donovan where she was and here she could get a cab, at the same time her leg developed a slow throb. Donovan acted like she didn’t want anything to do with her and Joan felt the same about her.

“He doesn’t have friends,” She continued and Joan had to say a quick prayer before she turned around. _Please Lord; keep my hands at my side and on my cane, not in her face, amen._ “So who are you?”

“I’m nobody,” Joan replied, looking everywhere except the woman in front of her. She was surprised she had kept an attitude from backing up the words. “I just met him.”

“Kay, a bit of advice then: Stay away from that guy.”

“Why?” Joan asked quickly, attitude making its way out. _Lord…_

“You know why he’s here,” Donovan replied like a question, a little too expectant of Joan to ask that question. Joan stayed quiet, “He’s not paid or anythin’. He _likes_ it, gets _off_ on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off and you know what? One day just showin’ off won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that’s put it there.”

“And why would he do that?” Joan asked casually, the volcano of slowly building up. It always caught her by surprise. The angrier she was, the calmer her voice came out. Who was this bitch and how dare she accuse someone of being a hidden murderer just because he could do her job better than her. She opened and closed her empty left hand, itching to put her hands on the officer.

“Cause he’s a psychopath. Psychopath’s get bored.” And then she gave Joan a look that said, ‘Watch and see that I’m right. You just might be his first victim.’

Joan was going to open her mouth to tell her off when the lead officer, the Detective Inspector she met earlier, called her over.

“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.” She called, walking off towards the building as she left Joan standing on the other side of the tape.

She stood there for a minute and wondered what she had gotten herself into before turning around herself, hobbling towards the main road.

 _There’s got to be some civilization in this mad town_ , she thought to herself. _Things just can’t get any stranger tonight._

Deep in her thoughts, as she walked past, the phone in a telephone booth started ringing.

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Things obviously got stranger that night, as Joan stood in front of the small creature in front of her. It had gotten plumb ridiculous for her for a while after she started walking from the crime scene. Attempting to call and text Sherlock had been a no go so she was on her own, again, now trying to catch a cab. She considered the first ringing phone to be coincidence. The ringing phone in the middle of a new place, someone who had used it before and the person calling back not knowing it was a street phone, okay. But when it became a constant uneasiness, ringing on every single street she walked on trying to catch a damn cabs that wouldn’t stop for her, Joan got weirded out…and nervous.

She’d seen the movies: The Fifth Element and Phone Booth One _and_ two.

If you’ve seen one movie with a man blown up or in danger of a sniper’s bullet, you’ve seen ‘em all.

So when the phone to the fourth phone booth she walked passed started ringing, Joan knew she either had to answer it or start beating on it. She chose the first.

“Look,” She said, answering it on the sixth ring. “I am really not in the mood for this, so if you’re going to shoot or blow my black ass up, do it now because I am _this_ close to finding you and beating you to death with my fists.”

The voice on the other side was quiet and Joan had secretly hoped he hung up, deciding to never call anyone ever again.

“Hello?!”

“There is a security camera on the building to your right…” A man’s voice said calmly.

“I’m not playing this game.” Joan answered disdainfully, and hung up the phone. This was not the night for this. When she saw Sherlock Holmes again he was going to get a good talking to… and possibly an ass whooping.

She managed to walk a feet past a restaurant and groaned when she caught a glance to another phone booth not ten feet from her. She hobbled a bit faster, leg now pitching the worse fit when the phone rang again. She walked past it and then walked back to it as it kept ringing.

“So obviously you’re not going to give me a break, so what the hell do you want?” Joan answered, ready to choke somebody.

“There is a security camera on the building to your left, do you see it?” The same man asked, clearly not turning away from this.

“Who’s this?” Joan asked, looking around. “Who are you?”

“Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?” He asked again, and Joan cut her eyes above, to the left. A grey security camera to the left sat blinking red on the corner of a building.

“I have eyes. I see it.”

“Watch.” Looking, the camera turned towards the street. Joan was bewildered.

“There is another camera on the building opposite you, do you see it,” The man asked and Joan looked to that one. Whomever it was spying on her obviously knew she was looking so she stayed silent as it turned itself away to another direction. “Now, finally, at the top of the building, on your right.”

That camera turned away as well and Joan was ready to bolt out of there.

_I’ll take the damn bullet._

“How the hell are you doing this?” She asked, looking at the people walking around her, oblivious to the mental breakdown that was imminent inside the small space.

“Get into the car Dr.Watson.” The voice commanded calmly, as a slick black car pulled up beside the booth. A man got out of the passenger side door and opened the back door up so someone, obviously her, could enter. “I would make some sort of threat but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.” The phone went dead and she stood there in shock until she got the nerve to enter it.

After the door closed and the car started moving, she realized that she was sitting alone in the back while the passenger and the driver, both male, sat in the front. Uneasiness stuffed the back seat and Joan was tempted to jump out the window. She tentatively reached for the door handle, giving a quick couple of pulls before she realized that the door had no lock to unlock it. To get out it had to be opened from the outside. Perfect. She placed her hands in her lap, holding back the urge to put her hands in them.

“Uhhh, hi,” Joan called from the back. The driver looked quickly up into the rear view mirror and then back to the road.

“Hi.” He said back, voice gruff. The passenger guy turned back towards her, and gave her a quick once over before saying his, “Evening.”

“What’s your name then?” She asked, happy to get someone’s attention. The windows were tinted so she really couldn’t see out in the darkness that was settling firmly on the cityscape, so looking at someone without squinting was a slight nerve wracking reprieve.

“Bob.” He said simply, mouth in a firm line.

“Is that your real name?” Joan asked coy.

The man smiled and said simply, “No.”

“Well I’m Joan. And that is my real name.”

“Yes,” The driver suddenly said. “We know.”

Okay….

“Okay, well um, Bob number 2,” Joan told the driver, watching coolly between the two men. “Any point in asking where we’re going?”

The man in the passenger seat turned around and looked forward.

“None at all…. _Joan._ ”

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When the car pulled into what seemed like an abandoned building, Joan wasn’t afraid. Getting out and wobbling from it didn’t bother her in the slightest, though her leg was going through a tremendous fit.

What surprised her was the little girl sitting down at a table in the middle of the room, or garage or wherever this place was, drinking from a small teacup. A teapot, a very fancy one, sat on the table in front of her along with a small plate of cookies on a very nice lace tablecloth. An empty white chair sat next to her. She stopped short, warily looking down at the spread, then the girl.

“I take that it wasn’t you calling me a few minutes ago was it?” Joan asked, as the girl’s blonde head kept bobbing downward, taking continuous sips of whatever she was drinking. She looked up at Joan and she swore she had seen those beautiful light eyes underneath blonde bangs somewhere before. “I’m surprised that whoever it was they had a hard time calling me…on my phone. That is what courteous people do isn’t it? Make invitations for tea either in letter format or on the phone, for decency’s sake and all that.”

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, Hence this place.” She waved a handy in a gentle curve by her face, motioning to the place they were in. he eyes never left Joan’s as a light smug smile crept its way across the small face. “The leg must be hurting you terribly. Sit down.”

“Darlin’, I’m not sittin’ down,” Joan replied trying to stay as polite as possible. The fact that her leg was hurting something awful didn’t take away the fact that she was standing in front of the Duchess of Cambridge or other, being talked to about Sherlock Holmes. Could he be this girl’s father?

“You don’t seem very afraid of me.” The replied, looking down unmoved at her teacup.

Joan held back the laugh that threatened to come out. “You don’t seem very frightening.”           

“Ah, yes,” The girl laughed instead. “The bravery of the soldier. My father says that bravery is the kindest word for stupidity. Don’t you think so too?” Her pretty eyes narrowed as the smile faded from her face. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“I-I don’t have one,’ Joan responded surprised. Maybe this one was just a tiny bit frightening. “I barely know him. We met…yesterday.”

“Hmm,” The child responded thoughtfully. “And since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now his taking you on crime solving dates together. I expect a happy invitation by tomorrow morning.”

Joan chuckled lightly, not feeling the laughter and asked, “Who are you?”

The girl’s smile reappeared. “Oh, no one in particular, really. Just an interested party.”

“Daughter,” Joan spoke and the girl gave a tinkling high laugh.

"God no... Can you image Sherlock as a father? _My_ father would have a heart attack.”

“And exactly where is your father?” Joan asked, politely again. There was no way she was getting in trouble over the fact that someone else’s child was sitting, unsupervised in a creepy ass abandon warehouse in the middle of nowhere. “Will he be here soon?”

“No,” She answered placing her teacup on the table. She placed her dainty hands on her lap and sat still and straight, like a porcelain doll. “He’s taking care of some important business and has sent me in his place.”

“Well I’m guessing you’re not friends then. So why are you interested in Sherlock? I hope it’s not some schoolgirl crush.”

“You’ve met him haven’t you? Talked with him? How many friends do you think he actually has?” The conversation with Donovan came back to mind and Joan anted to punch a rock.

“My father and I are the closest thing Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And that is?”

“An enemy,” The girl slid from her chair and wipes her small hands on the front of her dark skirt. It was such a pretty thing, the fabric with a white curve near where Joan guesses is her waist on the small body and a deep lilac shade of purple in the background to represent the sky. The bottom is decorated with what looks like a gothic church and a leafless tree, random smudges that look like birds decorating it. She wore a white blouse that was tucked into the skirt and Joan wanted to place her on her lap and cuddle her. She was so adorable. “At least in his mind certainly. If you asked him, he’d probably say his arch-enemies. He does love to be dramatic.”

“Well thank god you and your… _father_ , are above all that.” Joan sighed, and the girl seemed to take a bit of offense to it. At that moment was when her cell chimed in her pocket.

 _Baker Street. Come at once if convenient._ –SH

“I really hope I’m not distracting you from any important business.” The girl replied, albeit slightly annoyed at the facet Joan pulled out her cell.

“Baby girl, you are no distraction.” Joan smirked at her. The child was annoyed then.

“Do you plan to continue with your association with Sherlock Holmes?” The girl asked, leaning over her chair to pick up a dark umbrella. She grasped the handle in one hand and tapped the bottom of it on the cold concrete. Crossing one leg over the other, she began waving and twirling the umbrella, as if conducting an invisible orchestra.

“I could be wrong, but I think that’s none of your business.”

“It could be…”

“It really couldn’t.”

They stood silently in front of one another and the girl moved a hand to the side of her skirt, pulling out a small brown wallet from her pocket.

“You’re staying at 221B Baker Street, are you not? I am willing to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to…ease your way. I know you not have a lot of money here.”

“Why?”

“Information, of course,” The girl stated, as she walked towards Joan. She stopped a few feet short and had to crane her neck up slightly to keep eye contact with her. “Nothing indiscreet or anything you’d feel uncomfortable giving me. Just…keep me in the loop of the goings on in your new home.” He phone chimed again and the girl’s eyes narrowed.

 _If inconvenient, come all the same_ –SH

“Why?” Joan felt like a broken record at this point.

The girl’s face fell flat again. “We worry about him….constantly.

“No thank you, little lady,” Joan replied simply. If these were the type of people Sherlock was surrounded by on a daily basis no wonder he was so strange….and alone. Everyone was creepy and from what she had gathered… a bit petty too. He obviously needed someone around who wasn’t after something or worse, believed in him.

“You’re very faithful, very fast.” The girl stated, smugness written all over her angelical face.

“Well when troublemaking ankle biters like you are on the prowl, someone has to watch out for the innocent masses. Besides, I’m just not interested.”

The child’s eyes widened, not expecting her answer. “How do you know that I’m not one of the innocent masses?”

“Isn’t that the question of the hour?” Joan shot back. She took an exaggerated look around the room, turning around in a full circle. “If you haven’t realized, we are standing in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of freaking I don’t know and you’re trying to con me into giving you, a child, and some information on a grown man. If this is some schoolgirl crush, you may want to comeback in about 15 years darlin’. It ain’t happenin’.”

The girl smirked at this, tapping her umbrella on the ground. Then suddenly, she turned on her heel and started walking away.

“I don’t know who you are, Dr.Watson, but you’re funny.” The girl giggled, bringing small pale hand to her mouth. She continued walking away, swinging her little parasol in lieu of a wave, as Joan’s phone chirped again.

“It’s time to choose a side, Dr. Watson. We’ll be in touch.”

 _Could be dangerous._ –SH

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 _Are you near Baker Street, yet?_ –SH

_No. I’m a bit caught up_

_Doing what_ –SH

_I’m heading back to the hotel_

_What for?_ –SH

_To get my stuff_

_No need._ –SH

_What do you mean by that._

_What do you think it means? There is no need for you to go back there because your things are your things are here now. Try not to be so slow on the uptake would you, Joan?_ –SH

_When I get to Baker Street we are going to have a serious talk and afterwards I am going to strangle that long ass neck of yours so you better make your funeral arrangements now._

_So dangerous…_ –SH

_You have no idea_

_I can’t wait to see your lovely face_ –SH

_Please don’t try to sweet talk me when I’m plotting your imminent demise_

_Oh, should I save it for when we’re dating then?_ –SH

_Yes_

If Joan didn’t know better, she would have said that she regretted sending that answer. She didn’t.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the process of making a tumblr for Interracial!Sherlock. Stay tuned for a link in the future. 
> 
>  
> 
> The blouse is just a normal cute blouse. By anyone really...
> 
> I FOUND THE ORIGINAL SKIRT: https://40.media.tumblr.com/78a9d6bf32640b82da90b2e3f35b9d85/tumblr_nhbdl2irmc1s7j565o2_400.jpg
> 
> Umbrella Here (The plainer black one): http://item.rakuten.co.jp/lumiebre/0102-13000/
> 
> teapot inspiration: http://www.ebay.com/itm/131400421016?_trksid=p2055119.m1438.l2649&ssPageName=STRK%3AMEBIDX%3AIT
> 
> teacup inspiration:http://www.ebay.com/itm/141514586140?_trksid=p2055119.m1438.l2649&ssPageName=STRK%3AMEBIDX%3AIT


	8. Time to Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Strong hint/hidden/upcoming Mystrade in here. It's there......i hope your holes are ready)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is finally the end of their "meeting", mainly because fuck that, this is a romance, not a summary of the tv show. If you want the tv show, watch it on tv. I promise you you won't regret it...and if you do that's not my problem, you have no taste in tv.  
> After this chapter, shit gets fluffy.

That morning, Sherlock had fallen into a light sleep when Lestrade came bumbling loudly up the staircase to the flat. The loud stomping had his eyes snapping open and him flying off his bed, erupting a small cry from Emma, who had somehow managed to position her sleeping form onto his chest.

“Sherlock!” the DI yelled, pounding on the door. “There’s been another!”

Sherlock slammed the door open and grabbed the man by the lapels of his jacket, pulling him into the room.

“Where?” Sherlock asked, wasting no time.

“Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.” The man said immediately. He had been through this one too many times with him so he knew not to keep the genius waiting. Lestrade pulled away a bit, and Sherlock let him go.

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes? This one did. Will you come?”

“Good morning, Greg.” Emma yawned, stepping into the room. She rubbed her eyes sleepily. “Have you come to escort me home?”

“Um, no I haven’t but I suppose I could,” He started, then his face changed like he realized something. “Hang on. Was that you who helped him hack into the reporters phones before?”

Emma slid her gaze to Sherlock sheepishly and Sherlock pretended to busy himself looking for his coat. The press conference for the serial suicides that were occurring lately was a nice new fixture to fix his ever running mind on and he had waited as patiently as possible, which meant not at all, to bring his expertise in on it. Lestrade hadn’t been happy about it, obviously, but the fact that he was here currently meant that he was getting to the end of his rope. Emma was just the undercover agent to get him in and get him out without being realized by anyuone, especially his brother.

 _Perfect_.

“I couldn’t help it,” Emma sighed, shrugging her small shoulders. “You were out of your league and you were supposed to visit me and father for tea yesterday, which you forgot to do…again. This was just a little payback, that’s all.”

“You have got to stop helping hack into out cellphones,” Lestrade scolded her anyway. “I’ve had to constantly lie to Sally about me not knowing who’s doing it. As for tea, I’m sorry. These suicides have had my attention. You know, gotta’ stop the bad guys and whatnot. I had hoped the two of you would have understood.”

Emma pouted slightly and whimpered lightly as Lestrade ruffled her hair. She glowered at him and placed both hands on her messed hair, smoothing it back into place.

“Will you come?” Lestrade asked, shooting a desperate glance to Sherlock again.

“Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson.”

Sherlock mentally cursed. Dammit, of all the unlucky…

“He won’t work with me.”

“He won’t be your assistant

“I _need_ an assistant.” And as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew.

 _Of course…_ He glanced down at Emma who, in turn, looked up at him.

“Well we can get you someone else, ” Lestrade groaned. “Will you come or not?”

Emma looked at him quizzically then her eyes widened in quiet understanding. She left to reenter Sherlock’s bedroom. A thought popped into his head when the child came back into the sitting room, phone in her tiny hands.

“Not in the police car. I’ll be right behind you.” Lestrade stared and then sighed heavily.

“I’ll be out with you shortly,” Emma called as he made his way back downstairs. “I need to grab my shoes and hat.”

Who needed an idiot from Scotland Yard when he had his own qualified doctor a few streets away?

He waited until the door downstairs closed and jumped high into air.

“Brilliant! Four serial suicides and now a note, oh it’s _Christmas_!”

“If I was anyone else, I would have said the excitement you are displaying right now was indecent.”

“Who cares about ‘decent’?” He exclaimed, putting on his coat. “The _gam_ e, Emma, is _on_!”  


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That afternoon, his day was filled with a dead woman and a few too many text messages. The firsts arrived while riding quietly in the cab with Joan, from Emma, and he wanted to chuck the phone out the window.

_You should tell her how you feel. –EEH2_

_What are you talking about? –SH_

_Joan Watson. You should tell her how in love at first sight you are with her. –EEH2_

_I do believe it’s your bedtime. –SH_

_No, it’s only 4:30PM. It’s still a lot early. –EEH2_

_And stop changing the subject, it does more harm than good. –EEH2_

_What good is that? –SH_

_The good that you may have finally found someone that’s good for you. –EEH2_

_I don’t think so. –SH_

_I think I’ll have a talk with her myself and see. –EEH2_

_I’m almost positive it’s nap time for the 3 year olds. –SH_

_I AM 6 AND A HALF YOU INFURIATING GIT! –EEH2_

_Such language to your Uncle... –SH_

_I hope you suffer a punishment of a thousand paper cuts >:P –EEH2_

Right before Joan had met him back at the flat, he had laid down on the sofa thinking about the case. It was a thrilling one, serial killing all made to look like accidents. Joan had been accosted by Donovan, a slight turndown in his day, but Joan had seemed unmoved by it. They had moved into the abandoned building and seen the body, Sherlock did his thing and Joan did something that he had never come across before, she complimented him. He had never been complimented by the people he was telling, he had always gotten a shocked disbelieving look or a verbal ‘Piss off’.

“Fantastic!” She had said and meant it. “That’s brilliant!”

“You do know you do that aloud.” He had mumbled loudly, leaning towards her over the body on the ground. She seemed to have felt embarrassed about it for she gave a quiet, “Sorry. I’ll shut up now.”

“No, it’s…fine.” And it was. He felt as light as air and more spot on than usual.

As Sherlock lay on the sofa, he ended up having to apply three of the nicotine patches he had stashed in order to help him think.

So hard to sustain a smoking habit in London nowadays, such sad news for important brainwork.

Giving a call to his brother earlier, a team of his had brought in what little of Joan’s belonging left at the hotel and put them upstairs into the second floor bedroom. He thought of Mrs. Hudson when she had asked if they would need the two bedrooms and Sherlock was amused, tempted to say no, but thought better of it.

 _Better let her make that decision later on than now_ , he had thought at the time. Mrs. Hudson had brought up the new interracial couple that had moved into Mrs. Turner’s next door and he wondered if Joan was the type of person. His phone buzzed a couple of times in his hands, the first of several from her.

_Where are you._

_Text me back please._

_I don’t know where I am. Where are you._

_Sherlock I am angry and when I see you I am going to kill you_

_I hope you’re off saying your goodbyes because when I see you its lights out_

How did he get ever so lucky to surround himself with women like this?

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That night, when Joan stood next to Sherlock outside twin buildings of the college, she tried to be look as inconspicuous and innocent as she possibly could, he should have realized it was her. Her eyes wondered all over the place looking at the sky, the ground, her nails. She had even started to stare into the twirling lights of a cop car before she realized blindness was not what she was there for that night and shook her head out of it. The gun was well hidden, tucked away neatly under her sweater, in the waistband of her jeans.

“They keep putting this blanket over me, why are they putting this blanket over me?” Sherlock yelled from the back of the ambulance, at Inspector Lestrade as he walked towards them.

“It’s for shock,” Lestrade explained, scratching his salt and pepper hair. “And also, you know, for some of the guys who want to take photographs.

Sherlock sighed. There he goes again with his terrible humor. Joan hummed some unpercivable song and rocked back and forth on her heels.

“So for the mystery shooter,” Sherlock asked, taking a quick look around the area. There were police cars with flashing lights nearly surrounding him, nearly every Yard rat scurrying around.

“Cleared off before we got here.” Lestrade explained, sighing. “But a guy like that would have had enemies. One of them could have been following him but….haven’t gotten anything to go on.”

Sherlock smirked, the magic words he had been expecting him to say. Joan was now silent beside him. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Lestrade gave another one of his ‘I hate to ask but in order for me to avoid overtime for this and to let you show off, let me hear you’ looks.

“Okay….give me.”

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun, kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon, that’s a crack-shot we’re looking for. But not just a marksman: a fighter, his hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. He didn’t fire ‘till I was in immediate danger though, so strong moral principles. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service, nerves of ste…”

Sherlock looked around until he gazed upon Joan and everything clicked together. She held her hands behind her back and looked at him, eyes deceptively innocent. She blinked twice then gave him a disarmingly bright smile and he had to hold back every instinct that told him to kiss her where she stood. She looked away and slowly started rocking back and forth.

“Actually, do you know what,” Sherlock said suddenly, rising from the truck. He stood straight then faked a slight fainting fit, placing his hand palm side out against his forehead. “Ignore me.”

Lestrade was obviously confused at the sudden change. He held his arms out to catch him if he did faint, but Joan was right there beside him suddenly, hooking an arm around his. A hand placed itself gently against the center of his blanket covered back.

‘Ignore all of that. It’s just the, uh…. The shock talking,” he looked to Joan and gave her a serious look. If he was certain, he thought he saw a red flush to her face as she looked quickly away from him. “I feel faint. Joan, let’s talk about the rent.”

“Well we have questions for you,” Lestrade tried to intercept, and Sherlock whirled around to face him.

“Oh, what now?! I’m in shock, look I’ve got a blanket!” he waved a corner in his face and he could hear Joan’s quick laughter.

“Sherlock!”

“And, I’ve just caught you a serial killer…..kind of.”

Lestrade looked him up and down then back at Joan. He didn’t look like he was buying it but he could also tell that Sherlock wasn’t in the telling mood so he had to let it go.

“Alright. We’ll put it in tomorrow. Off you go.”

“Goodnight Lestrade.” Joan mumbled beside him, her first words since meeting him outside. He brought the blanket edges closer to his chest and pulled his hooked arm closer, bringer Joan to his side.

“Good shot,” He mumbled, just loud enough for Joan to hear. Joan looked at him and then back at the sidewalk, as they started walking.

“Ye-yeah,” Joan replied shyly. Her arm tightened with his and she gave a throat clearing cough. “The guy must have been…to do that. Right through that window. What a…guy. What. A. _Guy_.”

He glanced over at Joan who seemed more uneasy the farther they walked. He lifted the police tape that kept them caged in and allowed her to walk under it, then followed.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course I’m alright.” She responded and now she finally lifted her head to face him. He face was mixture of truth and lie, she was alright but felt that the truth of her actions would be found out the farther they got and they would come running to get her.

“You have just killed a man…”

“What?!” Joan gasped loudly. She loosened herself from his arm and took a couple steps back. “N-Nooo! Me, pft. Wha-what? Not me…noooo. _Nooooooo_!”

Sherlock gave her a serious face, successfully hiding his enjoyment of her denial.

“Y-You talkin’ nonsense man, serious nonsense,” She glanced around, a comical look of rebuff and surprise on her face. “You’re in shock… IT’S THE SHOCK.” She said that last part a bit louder as Donovan walked by, giving them both an unamused look.

She grabbed his arm, walking forward and dragged him farther off towards the street. “I…I’m starving. Let’s go.”

“Oh.” Sherlock said simply, not bothering to hide his smile now. Joan Watson saved his arse and literally tried to go so far as to contradict it, terribly in fact. What an incredible person.

“I know a good Thai place that’s open until two.”

“Oh well.. that sounds really good. I think we sho-…”Joan paused mid-sentence, and stopped. Sherlock nearly bumped into her.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, following her vision. A girl in a white dress, holding open a white umbrella stood merely a few feet away, next to a black car. Sherlock thought he’d throw up in his mouth but thought better of it. Better not make himself look bad in front of Joan.

He stomped forward, leaving Joan behind. He stopped short of Emma, her sickeningly sweet face brightening up.

“So, another case cracked!” She exclaimed happily. “How very public spirited. Though that’s never really your motivation, is it?” She leaned slightly to the side and looked up. “Good evening to you, Dr. Watson.” She gave a very proper curtsy and Sherlock wanted to stomp her into the ground.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, annoyed. Of course Emma would stick her little upturned nose where it didn’t belong...again. “Where the hell is Mycroft?”

“Mycroft,” Joan asked, now standing beside him. “Who’s Mycroft?”

Her eyes stayed attached to Emma, probably falling in love with her angelic like presence. Everyone she met did, wrapped themselves around her little finger. What they didn’t know was that she was a cunning little demon in an angel’s skin, waiting to devour your soul at the most opportune time. Just like her father.

Speaking of the devil himself, the door to the car opened and out he stepped, closed umbrella first.

“As ever we were concerned about you, Sherlock” Emma continued, twirling the umbrella behind her head like a pinwheel.

“Yes, I’m quite aware of _your_ concern, Emma,” He spat out glaring annoyed at his brother. Mycroft stepped up, standing beside his daughter.

“Always so aggressive,” Mycroft chimed in. “Has it ever occurred to you that the three of us are on the same side?”

“Oddly enough….. _no_.”

“Wait,” Joan chimed in. “You! You’re the voice from the telephone!”

Sherlock looked at the two in front of them, confused. “You’ve spoken to them?”

Joan looked up at him then back at Sherlock. “Uh, yeah. When you left me, they gave me a ride home.”

She seemed to be a little too comfortable in speaking to him about it, eyes too innocent and trusting, like she was hiding something in plain sight.

“We have more in common than you’d like to believe,” Mycroft responded, eyes fixed on Joan. He looked back at his little brother then, face serious. “This petty feud between is childish, people will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy.”

Sherlock was shocked silent. Mycroft always dare accuse him of hurting their mother, like he always did when he didn’t get his way. Nothing had changed in the 36 years of his life: Mycroft was snobby and self-centered.

“I upset her?!” Sherlock asked indignantly. “Me? _I_ was never the one who upset her, _Mycroft_!”

“Mummy?! Who’s Mummy?” Joan asked, interrupting again. He would have been bothered if he wasn’t already ready to throttle his brother. He pulled the orange blanket from his shoulders and shoved it at Joan, ready to fight.

“Mother, Joan. Our Mother.”

“So if your mother, is his mother, then your…”

“Brothers, Joan.” Emma spoke up. “They are brothers. My father is Uncle Sherlock’s older brother so that makes me his niece.” Emma stepped towards Joan and reached out her hand. “Emma Elizabeth Howard-Holmes, a pleasure to meet you.”

Joan was stuck in awe and surprise, full mouth opened slightly as she looked from Mycroft, to Emma, to Sherlock and back all over again. Sherlock grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him possessively.

“Putting on weight again?” Sherlock smirked, pulling Joan in front of him. He needed to get her far away from the two of them before she saw him do something he wouldn’t regret.

“Losing it, in fact.” Mycroft retorted, smugly pulling on his suit jacket lapels.

“Brother…” Joan mumbled, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Of course he’s my brother.”

Joan looked back and up at him, confusion on her face. “So they’re not…”

“Not what?” Sherlock asked, three family members now looking at her.

“I dunno, criminal masterminds?”

“Close enough. Let’s go Joan.” He pushed her forward and was about to take a step when Emma hurried in front of the two of them , trapping them temporarily.

 _Just perfect_ …

“For goodness sake,” Mycroft chckeld. “I occupy a minor position in the British Government…”

“He is the British government.” Sherlock all but snarled. “When he isn’t too busy being Secret Service, or the CIA on a freelance basis.”

Mycroft looked down at the ground then, tapping his umbrella on the ground. He looked like he had been ratted out and Sherlock resisted the temptation of sticking his tongue out at him.

“Good evening Mycroft, Emma,” He maneuvered Joan around Emma who smiled sweetly still, umbrella still twirling n the wind. “Try not to start a war before we get home. You know what it does for the traffic.”

He had managed to get them a few feet closer to the street before Joan told him to wait and ran back, talking to the two behind them. The shared a few words before Joan ran back, a smile on her face. She grabbed his arm and they walked back to the street together.

“What did you say to them back there?” He asked, as he raised a hand and hailed a closing in cab. He opened the door and allowed Joan to enter first before entering himself. He gave the cabbie the address and they were on their way.

“So Dim Sum,” Joan said excitedly, rubbing her hands together. “I’ve always wanted to try that. Do you think we could get some fortune cookies?”

She looked brightly at him, eyes shining in the darkness. Okay, so she wanted to play dumb, he would have that that suspicious if she didn’t wear that underlying sneakiness so well.

“I can always predict them,” He commented, looking out the window.

“No you can’t!” She laughed and his heart beat harder against his ribs. What is this?

“Almost can.” He whispered, looking sideways at her. The smile on her face grew wider and she slumped back onto the seat, laying her head on his shoulder and he resisted the urge to tilt his head to lay atop hers.

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“Shoulder,” Joan told when he asked where she was shot. They ate their takeaway in the sitting room, sitting in front of a fire he had built when they came in. They finished and Joan took their empty containers into the kitchen, then came back and sat down. Sherlock had filled a kettle with water and made her a cup of chamomile tea.

“So there was an actual wound.” He picked up his violin and crossed his legs, absentmindedly running his fingers up and down the strings.

“Yup,” She agreed, taking another sip from her mug.

“Shoulder, I thought so….”

“No you didn’t.” She accused him, looking up at him though her lashes. A playful smile played at her lips and he gave a one of his own.

“It was the left one.”

“Lucky guess,” She replied, teasing.

“I never guess.” He plucked a string as Joan rolled her eyes. She pulled her legs up into the chair, tucking them underneath her. She looked down at her lap, and he followed that movement. Joan had worn a knee length skirt that day, and when she raised her legs, her thighs filled it out, making it look shorter. She wasn’t tall, 5’7 from his 6 foot stand point, but her torso was short and her legs gave her the height. The skin was smooth and dark caramel colored and he couldn’t take his eyes off them.

“Yes you do.”

He plucked a few more strings, and they both were quiet.

“How did you get into my room today?” Joan asked, looking him in the face, now. He still stared at her and gently plucked the stings of his violin.

“I used the key. Why?”

“Why,” Joan asked. “Because you broke into my room to force me solve a murder case today! Today was the day I was supposed to meet you at seven, PM mind you, and let you know I can’t stay with you. Not go off on some super dangerous mission and…and…”

“Kill a cabby who had murdered four people?” Sherlock asked, smirking. Joan narrowed her eyes.

“Yes.” Joan looked down at her cup of tea. “But he wasn’t a very nice cabby tho’, was he?”

“No, he wasn’t.” Sherlock said simply. “Besides, like I said. I didn’t break in, I got the key.”

“And how did you manage that?” She asked, curious. Her body gave a quick shiver and he rose quickly from his chair and walked to the sofa and grabbed his blanket from it. He brought it over to her and she took it, giving him a warm smile. He stepped to the window and took a deep breath. His music stand stood in front of it, his violin bow resting comfortably on the shelf of it. He picked it up and waved it sharply to the side twice, allowing the light dust particles to fall away from it.

He smirked the entire time, thinking of how he had gotten the key. A quick text to Emma and a phone call to the front desk later, he had walked smoothly to her door, opened it, walked in. of course she didn’t need to know the truth of that so he simply said: “I went to the concierge and asked for it.”

Joan smirked and gave an unbelieving “Uh-huh.” She took another sip of tea and the room was quiet again for a moment when she said, “That Donovan chick said you enjoy this, you get off on it. And from the looks of it, you did.”

“And I said dangerous, and there you were.” He placed the violin under his chin, and dragged the bow on the strings, playing. Joan placed her cup on the ground beside her chair and cuddled down into her chair, bringing the blanket tighter to her chest. He turned towards the window and played softly a rhythm he just thought of.

“I guess I could give it a try,” She said a little louder than his playing. He turned to look at her and she smiled. “It wouldn’t hurt none, staying here for a while. And besides, even you could use a little complimenting every once and a while. Those two from Scotland yard, Anderson and Donovan,” She said the names like they were dirty on her tongue. “They could use a good talkin’ to, and I just might be the one to do it.”

 _Oh, I have no doubt in my mind,_ Sherlock wanted to say but stayed quiet. _I think they could use a good anything violent from you._

“Well, I’m going to bed,” Joan yawned, stretching after awhile. He stopped mid-song and turned to look at her. She shook out her left arm, and then rotated it at the shoulder. “I’m getting so stiff. Goodnight.”

“Make sure you put it back.” Sherlock uttered, putting his bow down on the table.

“What?” Joan asked standing. She stretched again, raising both her arms above her head. The action caused the bottom of her shirt to rise and allow a small sliver of skin to peek through. There was a quick thought of placing his hand there and sliding up under her shirt, over the rest of the skin before it disappeared when arms arms lowered again.

“The gun you used earlier. The one from under my bed.”

Joan gave him an disapproving look. “I…don’t know what you mean.”

They shared that disapproving look before Sherlock sighed. “Joan. There’s no need to deny it. It’s done now.”

At this point, he would have thought she’d gaze nervously around the room, deny it again or worse, try to pull the gun out on him. Instead she said, “It’s not like I had planned on keeping it.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied. “Just wanted to remind you just before you went upstairs to sleep, not to. Don’t want a matching hole in your backside to go with that shoulder now, do we?”

Joan looked at him confused and he thought he’d have to spell it out for her when she

“As your punishment for leaving me behind today, I’m sleeping in your bed.” She stalked off in the direction of the room, calling behind her: “Don’t follow me.”

Sherlock smirked and when he heard the door to his room close, he gazed outside the window to the quiet street below.

Things at Baker Street were going to be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for bigger, better things....like sex scenes.
> 
>  
> 
> Edit: I forgot to put what Emma is wearing this chapter! This should remind all people not to go to bed at 4 am.
> 
> Dress:http://himi.storenvy.com/products/7814289-free-ship-fantasy-seashell-star-puff-lace-tulle-vest-dress
> 
> Umbrella (white/ivory): http://item.taobao.com/item.htm?id=39975410750&fromSite=main&spm=a1z10.3.w4002-2370288766.46.cCOaff&_lang=zh_CN:TB-GBK&thwarea=cn&toSite=main


	9. Living with a Madman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan had now been with Sherlock for three months. Why?

_< 3 months later>_

Joan was over the moon. 3 months in England, in London, in 221B Baker Street, and she was ready to choke somebody, and that somebody, was Sherlock Holmes.

Starting the next morning, Sherlock had literally turned her world upside down.

Joan had woken up that morning, ready for a new day. She had taken slept in Sherlock’s king size bed the night before, since there was no bed upstairs as of yet, and reveled in it. The sheets and blanket that covered the amazing mattress had to at least be some type of 600 count that only rich white people could afford because back at her momma’s house, the non-counted sheets from the dollar store didn’t even compare.

When the sun rose in his bedroom, Joan really didn’t want to rise with it. She felt her eyes gently close and she snuggled deeper into the pillow, her butt rubbing against the hard wall next to her…

_Wall? There’s no wall this close..._

Joan’s eyes shot back open and she turned over, eyes connection with two blue green orbs on a pale background. She nearly toppled over the side of the bed when she scooted away.

“Good Morning Joan,” Sherlock spoke calmly, looking at her. “I do hope you slept well.”

Joan looked around the room and then back at Sherlock, who laid relaxed on his side staring at her. He was impeccably dressed, shoe and tie-less, like he never changed clothes at all.

“ _Why_ ….are you _here_ ,” Joan asked slowly. “In this _bed_ ….with _me_?”

“This is my bed, Joan.”

“Well, yeah, I know that but…” Joan couldn’t even finish. How long had he even been there next to her? “When did you come in here? Did you even go to sleep?”

“Ugh, sleep. Sleeping’s boring.” He rolled his eyes and turned over onto his back, then placed his hands behind his head. Joan tried not to notice how long and lean he looked that way, body taking up the entire length of the bed without even trying. A peek of skin showed between the flaps of the top unbuttoned button and she wanted to ask him to strip off his clothes and keep that same position afterwards, just so she could see the rest of…him.

Instead she said, “You better not have touched my butt.” She pushed the covers away and sat cross-legged on the bed, hands grasping her ankles. She was happy that she changed into a pair of long pajama pants she packed in her suitcase, preparing just in case if the nights cold.

“Why would I have done that?’ Sherlock asked, turning his head slightly to look at her.

“Because…” She replied, looking at him. “You’re a man and men do stupid things when faced with the circumstances. Like touch an innocent girl while she’s sleeping.”

He eyed her like she like had called him an idiot. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Joan narrowed her eyes at him in disbelief but when she reflected on it, she really did believe him. Sherlock Holmes looked like the type of men women threw themselves at and he gave them neither the time nor the day in response.

Like Sherlock Holmes would ever have to stoop so low as to touch a slightly willing young lady in the dark of night to catch a thrill.

_Too bad…_

“Besides, you’ve done enough of pushing it against me yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Joan asked, surprised. She knew she was a messy sleeper but…did he actually sleep there all night?

He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it, then opened and closed again. Finally, after a minute, he said, “I need to go to the bank.” He rose quickly from the bed, a feat easily done somehow for him with his tentacle like limbs, and her life with Mr. Holmes began.

So now, in three fast months, Sherlock had managed to change her life around. The top three she had come to count on him to do was:

1\. ~~Figure out the password to~~ Hack into her computer without even trying

The first time it happened, she came home from doing the shopping one day and he sat at the window table, typing away on it.

“Is that my computer?’ She asked, placing the bags on the kitchen table. There had finally been room after she bitched at him the day before to make room for her on it, a lot of room.

“Of course it is,” Sherlock replied as if she was dumb to ask that question. “Mine was in the bedroom and this was closer. I called for you to give it to me but you didn’t answer, so I took it as permission to use it.”

“I told you I was going to the store!” Joan said exasperated. “Besides, it has password protection!”

“The password was fairly simple, took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox now is it?” He continued to type.

“Yeah, you’re right,” He looked at her then. “Fort Knox would have shot your ass on sight!” She stomped over, grabbed her computer away and stomped to the upstairs bedroom and slammed the door. It was two hours before she came downstairs and saw he still sat at the table, now with prayer hands to his chin and eyes closed.

The fourth time he had done it was when she left to find a job at a local clinic near flat, thanks to Emma who had somehow gotten her cell phone number and texted her the info about the opening.

“How the hell are you doing this?” She asked bewildered when she came home. He lay on the sofa, the topic of conversation on his stomach.

“Oh good, you’re back. Could I borrow your laptop?” Sherlock asked, typing something furiously.

“My laptop,” Joan asked dumbly, walking over to him. “The one you’re typing on right now?”

“Yes.” He paused for a moment then started typing again.

“That one,” She pointed to it. “That one sitting on your chest right _there_?”

“Yes, Joan.” He replied exasperated, the ‘why are you asking me redundant and unimportant questions right now, for I am in the middle of something and you are bothering me’ apparent in his voice.

“Where the hell is your computer?”

“It’s in my bedroom,” He paused typing again then turned his head to face her. “I called for you to get it for me but you never answered. I took it as a silent agreement for me to use this one.”

Joan was silent a moment, the anger in her rising. “What did I tell you the last time you took my laptop?”

“I did ask!” he said rolling his eyes and argumentative. “You never answered. So, since you didn’t I took it upon myself to use it.” He finished typing whatever it was he was writing and closed the laptop. “You never said you had to be here to hear it, now did you?”

Her mouth opened, ready to have another question but snapped it closed. There was no use arguing with this man. If any more words went between them, she’d literally have to type a blog post about how she was going to spend the rest of her life in prison for killing The Idiotic Consulting Detective, and how she really wouldn’t regret it. Instead, she grabbed the machine from him and stomped into his bedroom, picked up his laptop that lay conveniently in the middle of his bed, came out and slammed it onto his stomach. He gave a slight ‘oof’ and looked up at her, confused.

“Touch my laptop again and I’ll set you on fire.” She growled at him, walking upstairs to her own bed, recently bought with the money from her first check from the clinic.

From that day forward, Sherlock still used her computer, but always made sure to hear her vocally say yes.

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2\. Ruin her sleep schedule

            Between being in Afghanistan and Tennessee, Joan knew nights without sleep. She knew nights with little sleep and in the hospital she knew full nights sleep and days that turned into nights of sleep that turned into days again. She thought she knew as much about it as she could. With Sherlock, however, she found out differently. Sherlock ran on a sleep scheudal that he and only he could follow.

Joan would go to bed at night, a decent time like 10pm, and be fine. Then, her dream world would be shattered with the wailing and horribly off-key palying of Sherlock’s violin at 2;30 in the morning. It sometimes took her an extra 2 hours to get back to sleep after the first time, rushing downstairs to yank the instrument from his hands and start beating him across his still perfectly tailor-dressed back and arms with it.

“Joan, Joan stop it you’re being unreasonable!” He yelled, protecting his face with his long arms.

“I’m being unreasonable?!” Joan yelled back, throwing the instrument onto the sofa and now beating him with her fists. “Who the hell gave you the right to awaken me like this? I have work tomorrow and you are fucking up my last few hours of peace for me!”

“I was thinking, Joan!” He yelled, maneuvering himself away from her and rushing to the sofa, the low table in front of it a needed barrier between him and her. “I needed something t help my concentration and you…”

Sherlock stopped talking and stared at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, almost as if he was hypnotized by something. That, after a minute of complete silence, was when she realized something may have been wrong.

“What’s wrong?” Joan asked, the doctor in her showing up. “Are you alright?”

“That’s it…” He mumbled aloud, making his way quickly around the table to her. He grasped her hands in his, the coolness electrifying her warm ones.

“You fantastic conductor of light,” he called her, eyes shining bright and mouth in a wonderfully delighted smile. Joan’s mouth opened slightly and she felt a strong blush spread its way from her face, down to the tips of her toes. He was so devilishly happy, the energy radiating throughout his tall frame. It was so amazing, so…addicting, that she wanted to lean up and kiss the smile on his face, to maybe keep some on the side for her. But alas, when he dropped her hands and quickly opened the door to the flat, grabbed his coat and scarf and rushed outside, her daydream came to an end.

She didn’t go back to sleep at all that morning.

Of course those violin induced nights were far and in between, as Sherlock spent a lot of time not sleeping…at all.

2\. 3, 5 days of constantly going on and on and on, until he would just collapse on the ground, magnifying lens in his hand and mouth open, snoring deeply and loudly.

And of course he would do it at the most inopportune times: At a crime scene, in Lestrade’s office at New Scotland Yard, in the back of a taxi on the way home, though sometimes that last one was very enjoyable. He would be talking on and on like he usually did about a theory he had about the case they were working on or some result to an experiment he had started back in the flat’s kitchen laboratory, when all of a sudden the back of the cab would be silent, and his curl covered head would lie heavily on top of hers. The warmth of his coat and the sounds of his light snoring seemed to surround her in the enclosed area and she felt at peace and, well, happy.

That is, until she realized that she was the one who had to drag his long ass onto the sidewalk and up the stairs of 221B like the corpses he was so infatuated with, and tossed him onto his awaiting bed.

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And 3, literally kill her with things that normal people didn’t have to do/deal with in normal life

In the beginning, she had expected t to be like a really fun sleepover, like the ones you have with the male cousins, nephews when you’re young. Over time, however, moving in with Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the cool sleepover that it seemed to be.

Actually, he wasn’t at all like she thought it would be.

Apart from being fantastically bright and inhumanely good looking, Sherlock Holmes was a mess. In addition, he literally was the messiest man alive. The house was always littered with paper from case files he worked on and notes he took from doing research on said case files and experiments too. The kitchen table rarely ever had any room to eat a meal on, for it was cluttered with more paper, beakers of many sizes with unknown multicolored liquids. His microscope sat on the right side of the table near the edge, where Sherlock sat in front of the stove, dressed in his house robe, a grey t-shirt with pajama pants underneath, peeping through the eyepiece, flipping through slides.

“I don’t know how you expect to cook when you’re propped in front of the stove,” Joan complained one evening, coming home from the clinic. She had little money to stop by Angelo’s and pick something up for dinner, so she came straight back to the flat. She would have gone to Mrs. Hudson, but she had gone out to a book club.

“I don’t cook,” Sherlock replied, flipping to another slide. He paused briefly and wrote something down on a paper beside the microscope. “I don’t eat like to eat.”

Joan looked at him skeptically. Surely he can’t be serious.

“Sherlock, you’d starved to death if you didn’t.” She told him, hands on her hips. He gave a short hmm and flipped through another slide. Throwing her hands up, she stalked over to the fridge. Maybe there was some-

The head that blankly stared at her from the shelf was not the top of nourishment she had been looking for. The scream that ripped from her throat was partly horror, part anger.

She stepped back, hand on her chest over her heart. The man was seriously trying to kill her.

“Just tea for me, thanks,” Sherlock sighed offhandedly, rising from the table to head into the sitting room.

Joan stared at him as he walked away, half urged to put his head next to the one currently chilling, literally, in the fridge.

“It-It’s a head,” She stuttered to aloud. “A…head...”

“Mrs. Hudson should have some biscuits down her flat,” Sherlock called from the room. Joan stumbled in, in shock. Sherlock simply lay horizontal on the couch, eyes closed and fingers steepled under his chin. “The key is in the cabinet above the stove. Help yourself and bring me some too.”

Joan looked around, curious as to he was talking to.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware of it, Mr. Holmes,” She scowled, pointing to the fridge. “But there is a bloody head in the fridge.”

“ _Yeeesssss_ ,” He drawled, eyes still closed. He opened his eyes then and turned to look at her. “Well, where else was I supposed to put it? You don’t mind do you?”

Joan looked back to the fridge and back to him. She was so confused she became shocked silent. He had body parts, real dead body parts, in the fridge and he just lay on the couch like all was right with the world.

“I got it from Bart’s morgue,” Sherlock, drawled explaining. “I’m measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.”

“Well, I don’t see how you are planning to eat _that_ tonight, so I guess I’m on my ownto find something to eat.” Joan replied, giving up the conversation. She walked over to Sherlock’s chair, and flopped down in it.

“I see you’ve written up the taxi driver case,” Sherlock commented, flicking a wrist at the table where her laptop sat. “‘A Study in Pink'... Nice.”

Joan shrugged, a little impressed he thought enough to compliment on it. “Well, you know. Pink lady, pink case, pink phone… there was an awful lot of pink.” Sherlock picked up a magazine from the table in front of the couch and started reading it.

“Did you like it?”

“Uhmmm, _nooo_ ,” He said shortly.

“What?” Joan asked a bit surprised at his remark. “Why not; I thought you’d be flattered.”

“Flattered,” Sherlock questioned, irritated. He looked at her as he spoke. “‘ _Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible though is how_ spectacularly _ignorant he is about some things_ …’”

“Now hang on,” Joan tried explaining. Though the fact was true, she’d written it to add more to the blog entry. She hadn’t thought about him reading it or the fact that she would have, or did in this case, hurt his feelings. “I didn’t mean that in a...”

“Oh,” He exclaimed, false understanding in his voice. “You meant ‘spectacularly ignorant’ in a _nice_ way. Look, it doesn’t matter to me who’s Prime Minister or who’s sleeping with who…”

“Or the Earth goes around the sun,” Joan mumbled loudly.

“Oh, no not that again…It’s not _IMPORTANT_!”

“Not important?” Joan asked, turning to face him in the chair, now even more aggravated than before. She was in literal shock when he told her that the sun goes around the earth on day when they returned from a case. She sat down at the table to write about the case, the pink lady’s, when an educational show about space came on. His ‘wrong’ was shouted at TV when the narrator said the Earth rotated on its axis, around the sun. She had to stop herself from laughing when he looked at her with the most honest bewilderment she had ever seen. Even when she spent the rest of the episode arguing with him about it, he still didn’t believe her or the TV.

“It’s _middle school_ stuff, Sherlock. _How_ can you not know that?”

He lifted the hands and rested the heels of them in his eyes. “If I ever did, I’ve deleted it.”

“Deleted it?” Joan asked skeptically. He sat up then and turned sideways to place his bare feet on the floor.

“Listen,” Sherlock asserted, tossing the magazine to the table and pointing to his head. “ _This_ is my hard drive and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful, _really_ useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get to the stuff that _matters_. Do you see?”

She bit her bottom lip, understanding enough that, only Sherlock Holmes would eat bull shit like that up with a silver spoon. But, “It’s the _SOLAR SYSTEM_!” She almost shrieked, throwing her hands up.

“ _OHHH_ ,” Sherlock groaned, putting his eyes back into his hands. “Hell, what does that _MATTER_? So, we go around the sun. If we went around the moon or ‘round and round the garden like a teddy bear’, it wouldn’t make any _difference._ All that matters, _to me_ , is the work. Without that my brain rots,” He ruffled his hair in his hands, “put _that_ in your blog. Or better still; stop inflicting your opinions on the world.”

He flicked the magazine on the table with his hand and flopped back on the couch, back facing outward as he tried to curl himself into a ball _._

 _Like an ornery child_ , Joan mused, half tempted to take him into the bedroom and give his ass a spanking. She knew that’s how her momma would have responded to her doing that but agrown man like Sherlock as for a hardcore ass kicking. She rose from his chair and grabbed her jacket, putting it on. She didn’t have to put up with this. Sherlock turned around slightly, to ask where she was going.

“ _Out_ , I need some air,” She answered quickly, anger fuming. She walked down the stairs, past a just arriving Mrs. Hudson on the stairs, heading up to 221B.

“Excuse me. “ She ground out bitterly as she walked past her and out the door.

She ended up walking for two hours up and down baker street, mumbling to herself that if she had any common sense she would go back in there and tell him to suck something that really didn’t belong in anyone’s mouth.

Then the question that always arose when they had a fight or argument about something came back to her: Why her?

What did Joan have that no one else did that made him talk let alone want to move her in with him? Sherlock didn’t seem the romantic type, and if this was his idea of romance, filling her days with cases, corpses and near heart attacks, he needed to be re-schooled asap. There was really nothing holding her back from going home, per se.

The day after she slept in her new bed for the first time, her missing purse magically appeared next to her on the pillow. She had pretty much forgotten all about it and when she opened it, her passport and return flight ticket still lay ready to go inside. She stared at them a long time before sticking it inside the bottom of her suitcase, not thinking about it again.

“Why, Sherlock,” She still asked him one day after coming home from a case. Since there was no real food in the house yet, Joan had stopped by a chicken place nearby and picked up some food that Sherlock scoffed at and refused to eat. “Why did you choose me?”

“Anderson doesn’t work well with me.” Joan snorted a laugh at that. She thought back to the dead woman in pink and Sherlock’s correct deductions of Anderson and Donovan’s sleeping arraignments with one another.

“I’d say. It was hilarious when you told them off like that; they haven’t looked in my direction for weeks.

“It’s better off for you. Just listening to Anderson speaking out loud lowers the IQ of the Yard, turning you and anyone else who hears it into bigger idiots than him.”

“Saving my brain from further ruin,” Joan snickered into her plate. She had stopped eating because the food was really over spiced and not crunchy enough for her tastes. She left it on the kitchen table and sat down in front of him in the sitting room, in her chair. Sherlock sat in his own, near the fireplace fire he started, and absently plucked the strings on his violin. “Only the great Sherlock Homes would be so kind as to do that. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” He replied simply. He seemed to be staring into space when he said it because suddenly looked her in the eye.

“No, no, no. Don’t be like that,” He explained, apparently taking in the look of absolute horror and offence on her face. “Practically everyone is, except Anderson, of course…and you.”

“And me?”

“Yes you. Not the brightest but you do shine more than the others. I was happy that Mrs. Hudson took my skull before. It was nice having a more portable listener. The skull just attracts attention.”

“So instead of being your flat mate, I’m a fit in for Mr. Shakespeare?” A playful smile widened on her face.

“Don’t worry, you did fine.” He returned her smile then, a gradual lifting of the corners of his mouth. Joan felt the red hot spreading of a blush across her cheeks and she absentmindedly rubbed a cheek with the back of her hand to hide it. “besides, it gets boing after a while. It became a part of the normality of my life and I don’t need that. Normal is boring, wouldn’t you agree?”

The more Joan thought about it, the more she realized that she didn’t really want a normal life anymore. There was so much life, so much adventure with Sherlock Holmes that she every once in a while questioned why she never thought to move to London and meet him earlier. But of course, she knew that that wasn’t written in her stars. When Joan returned home from the hospital after being shot, all she wanted was to be left alone. When she said this aloud, her momma would always say that the Lord would always send not what you want, but what you need in the end.

God obviously wanted her to meet the man that she would probably come to need.

Things at Baker Street were going to be interesting, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone reading, please don;t hesitate to let me know if something doeant make sense or if you know a bit of information about something i type that is wrong or needs a bit of clearing up. This is my first real public fanfic and i await with bated breath suggestions and fan art...
> 
>  
> 
> Mainly fan art. =-_^=


	10. Living with a Madwoman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is closed off and rarely allows anyone in. Joan appears and all that disappears, so he makes a list of his own to make sure he doesn't like her because of a flake in his own reasoning.
> 
> Though he wouldn't admit that aloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm dead. Someone come and cuddle me...

<6 months later>

Sherlock Holmes hated people. All people in fact. He hated them so much that if he could blast anyone to the deep reaches of space, and leave himself alone, he would. He would have left Mrs. Hudson out of this gathering of hated people but she came upstairs earlier that week and cleaned out the fridge, tossing out the bag of thumbs he was going to use in an experiment, so she immediately made it to the top of the list.

But somehow, Joan managed to keep herself off it. It was strange now, the feelings he had towards her. She was an addition to him, like a second limb, a needed appendage that he went for so long without that he forgot he even needed it.

He wanted her near him, right next to him at all times of everyday. Even when she went away to the clinic 4 days a week, eight hours at a time, he found himself texting her, missing her presence with an unknown desperation. If it had been anyone else, they would have been thrown out long ago, like his missing thumbs. There was something in the near nine and a half months they lived together that Sherlock enjoyed with Joan, good reasons he never had to remind himself of. There were a few more important numbered reasons why Sherlock kept Joan around on his laptop, typed in a secret cryptic file that no one, not even his infuriating brother and niece could get into.

One reason was that she was actually more tolerable and less idiotic than other people

Of course she had her moments of idiocy, asking the wrong questions or giving the wrong answer half them, especially on cases. It usual took Lestrade half the time of working a case before something smart came from his mouth, but with Joan every other sentence was a thoughtful response or an angle he had never thought to look at before. Whenever something new was discovered, her name was the first he’d call to look at it and then she’d say something that brought everything together.

The pieces would fall into place then and he’d solve the case, feeling magnificent and on an unbelievable high, and Joan would call him fantastic and brilliant, clever and an absolute genius.

Things of course he already knew, but just sounded better coming from her.

Her presence turned out to be a bonus as well, on days he wouldn’t talk for hours at a time, sitting in front of the fire place or in some cases on the sofa after a sudden short nap, plucking at the strings of his violin, deep in the farthest rooms of his Mind Palace. Suddenly her name was on his lips, “Joan!”, and he’d come out of his mind, see her sitting on the opposite of him, looking up from whatever book she was reading.

“What is it?” She would reply, calmly and fascinated, always interested. Then he would tell her what thoughts he had on his mind, always occurring dialogues of information that she most likely didn’t get or was too stupid to understand, but always attempted to. It was even better than talking to Billy; the skull sitting quietly beside her on the fireplace, whose new name given by Joan was Mr. Shakespeare. He would have been annoyed at this but this skull spoke back.

In return, he would bless her with his presence, allowing her to sit opposite him at the kitchen table, or what she called the ‘Kitchen Laboratory’ which he wouldn’t admit was a worse name than work area, or he would sit with her in front of the fireplace or stand near the window in the sitting room and play her Tchaikovsky or Chopin, the last being her favorite.

Sporadically, he would sit with her watching crap telly, and often found himself getting immersed in the pointless shows she watched.

He started enjoying her reaction to him, laughing or arguing with him about the truthiness of the guest’s admissions.

“No, No!” He would yell sometimes, watching one of them at night after a case. “Of course he’s not the boy’s father! Look at the turnips on his _jeans_!”

“I’m surprised you haven’t made it onto one yourself.” Joan laughed one evening, sitting at the window table, typing up a post on her blog. She had become his ‘Star Blogger’ and typed up the cases they went on ‘getting him more exciting things to do’, his words, and ‘giving her something to do with her hands besides kill him very violently’, her words.

“Hmm,” He hummed.

“The Clever Consulting Detective show,” She laughed. “Everyone is an Idiot with Sherlock Holmes. They would be top billing shows. You’d out everyone’s secrets and make millions.”

“Oh,” He commented, trying not to think about it. “Me on telly… complete nonsense. Besides, what would my trusty blogger do in the meantime?”

“I dunno,” She replied, still typing. “Bodyguard? I could be your Steve Wilkos… or maybe I could be that black guy that plays music on Ellen!”

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied. Then, after careful consideration, said “I have no idea who those people are.”

“Of course you don’t Sherlock. Of course you don’t…”

He even allowed her to sit next to him on the sofa, something he never allowed for anyone to do. Joan would sit at one end and he at the other, then closer over time, shoulder, or in her case arm, inches from his. Then, before he knew it, instead of just sitting next to her on the sofa, his head found a nice warm spot on her shoulder and then, by the time the six months were coming to a close, it found its way into her lap and it was strangely…satisfactory.

At first, it was only when they watched crap telly or when his body finally acceded, too tired from days without sleep working a case. Then it became normal, something Sherlock was surprising alright with too.

He’d never admit that aloud to her, of course.

He would lay there and talk, telly on or majority of the time off, explaining the facts of cases or telling Joan about the idiocy of someone’s report in the science weekly magazine he semi-enjoyed ready, and every so often, as she laughed at a clever insult or questioned an obvious fact, her fingers would work its way into his curls, massaging them at the scalp.

Then, and only then, would his words cease and his eyes would close, mind at peace.

It was strange for him, this simple action. He rarely like anyone touching him, sometimes even a handshake made him want to fly off the face of the earth into the sun. But this…

“Mmmm,” He hummed one evening as her digits made their way to a prime spot. His eyes closed he relaxed into it, body comfortably horizontal on the sofa. If possible, he would have started purring like a sated cat.

“You like that, huh?” Joan asked softly, a soft smile on her face.

“It’s alright,” he replied, playing it off. He often did that to give her a hard time but Joan always seemed to see right through it and, unlike others who were insulted by Sherlock’s non-praise, she enjoyed it.

“Oh, I see,” She replied, sliding her hands from his hair. His shot open and looked up into hers, face furrowed into confusion. “So if I just stopped, you’d have no problem?”

“Of course I wouldn’t.” he answered a little too quickly. Her eyes widened quickly then opened back to normal.

“Alright then, we’ll see.” She replied simply, placing her hands on each side of her hips onto the sofa.

“Alright we’ll see, what?” Sherlock asked, worried now she had stopped. He sat up a little, propped up by his elbows.

“We’ll see how long you last without me doing this.”

“Why would we do that?’ Sherlock asked. If she was going to make a lesson out of this, he’d be hard pressed to figure out why. “Are you upset that I said it was alright?’

“Oh _noooo_ ,” Joan droned, looking down at him. “It’s _fiiiiine_. Nothing to worry about _heeeere_ …”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed a bit, and then he lay back down, closed his eyes, and tented his fingers under his chin.

“I’ll be just fine. I was fine before.”

“Okay.”

“I will.” He had to get the last word in. Sherlock peeped open one eye and caught the smile tilting up the corner of her lips. She looked down at him and he hurriedly closed it, pretending to be deep in his Mind Palace.

He should have realized then she knew it wouldn’t last long.

He lasted all of five days when he roared on a boring day, frustrated with the results of an experiment gone awry, before he stomped into the sitting room where she sat in her chair by the fireplace, reading a book. He flopped down onto his knees on the carpeted floor in front of her, grabbed the book from her, tossed it across the room, and placed his face into her warm lap.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” She asked as he took hold of both her wrists in his hands and placed her hands on his head.

“I can’t…” He mumbled, the cloth of her jeans mumbling his words. Her hands simply lay atop of his head, unmoving, and he felt his body throb with annoyed excitement. He needed this to happen and happen soon.

“What?” Joan asked dumbly. He refused to look up to see if she was smiling or not.

“I can’t take it anymore!’ he yelled loudly into her lap. His hands were still wrapped around her wrists so he wiggled them back and forth, making her useless hands go through the motions.

“I take it nothing’s coming to you then,” She replied, fingers making their way into his hair.

“I need you to scratch out a solution for me.”

“A solution,” Joan inquired, fingertips finally making a- _yessssss, that’s iiiiit_ ….

“Mmmmmmm,” He groaned, relaxing. He could feel his mind reorganizing itself, the mess of equations and formulas neatly forming in his closed eyes.

“I knew you’d be back,” She whispered loudly, moving her hands near the ba- _ohhh, God yes, that’s brilliant._ “A cat like you always likes to be the center of attention, even when you say you don’t. I thi-”

“That’s it!” Sherlock yelled, his head shooting up. He clambered from the floor and into the kitchen, restarting the experiment. Two hours later, a successful experiment was documented and Joan even clapped after he told her about it that evening, relaxing on the sofa.

Of course, thanks to her, but he’d never admit that.

Something else that was very strange that headed to this list was the fact that Joan actually enjoyed people’s company.

Clients, strangers on the street, Lestrade, Emma…even Mycroft fit himself more into the 221 doorframes for a chat with her.

“Mycroft is your brother. I don’t understand why you treat him the way you do.” Joan would say, serving him a cup of tea and a slice of whatever dessert she made that day. This day was pecan pie day and he made sure not jump up and down, clapping his hands with glee.

“He’s always into things that don’t concern him and makes me angry on purpose to make himself, and his offspring, happy.” Sherlock responded exasperated before taking a bite. His eyes successfully managed not to roll to the back of his head, the delicious flavor filling every available taste bud in his head. “You know. You’ve met him. He’s always into things and trying to make me do his dirty work because he’s now the government. He’s even more insufferable than he was when I was younger.”

“So you getting into all types of shit on a daily basis isn’t part of the reason he’s always on your back?” Joan asked as she sat across from him at the kitchen table, smiling into a cup of tea.

“Not at all; I’m the best-behaved person I know.” She smiled fully and took a sip from her cup.

“I almost feel sorry for you.”

“Really?”

“No.” Then she would smile brightly at him, while his mouth turned into an annoyed frown. She was almost as bad as him.

Brilliant, though he wouldn’t admit that aloud.

Lestrade would call or come over on days he had off, Sherlock hated those days because he would be bored out of his mind and was always centimeters close to killing Lestrade just to have a murder to solve.

“You’re welcome to join us,” Joan would always invited, staring at him as he laid supine on the soda.

“Unconceivable,” Sherlock would reply, flipping through a magazine or posting on his blog. “I have yet to finish my post about the identifications of perfumes.”

“Yeah because who isn’t in need of that,” Lestrade replied, chuckling. Joan joined him and Sherlock was suddenly annoyed. Why? he couldn’t say.

“Hey!” Joan gasped, patting Lestrade on the shoulder. “I need that! How else would I know what scents bring an alpha to my omega? I’m still fairly young; I got eggs that need fertilizing.”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop at Joan who was smiling wickedly at him, dark eyes twinkling. Lestrade’s face was reddening, and he brought up a hand to his face, poorly attempting to wipe it away.

“Do try to not to burn down 221B, okay?” Joan warned like she always did when she left the flat.

They’d go out for pints while Sherlock’s mind ate away at itself in the flat, every experiment he attempted to do going catastrophically.

Emma, during these times, would manage to get on his nerves even more than usual by texting him often about things he should do with her. Sherlock believed taking her out for the ever so often thrilling case Lestrade would text him about should have been enough. Emma would ask about what Joan was up to or, in many cases, would stop at by attempting to convince him to woo her instead of, ahem, infuriate her.

Whatever that meant…

_She’s very cute today. –EEH2_

_I know she is. –SH_

_You should invite her out for a tea date–EEH2_

_What for? We have plenty of tea here that she makes abominably. No sugar or milk. It’s a transgression.–SH_

_The ruination of tea is your goal in life. Everyone knows that. That’s why you’re not invited to my tea parties anymore –EEH2_

_I hope you can hear the sadness in this text about that. –SH_

_I think can hear the tiny violin playing out your nonexistent sadness–EEH2_

_There are lots of tears now. Boo hoo hoo. –SH_

_Liar :P –EEH2_

_Most definitely. –SH_

_But I’ve been having an idea recently. You should bring her home with you, to meet Grandmother and Grandfather at Christmas –EEH2_

_And why would I do that? –SH_

_Because they would approve –EEH2_

_Approve of what? –SH_

_Your Union –EEH2_

_Well…it has been fun talking to a 3 year old –SH_

_IM 6 AND A HALF YOU TWIT! –EEH2_

Joan would come home after these and literally lose her mind, screaming at him about testing the time her trainers dissolved in acid or testing the flammability of sitting room draperies.

“Not my fault you left me unsupervised.” Sherlock would shrug, watching passively in the doorway to the kitchen as Joan stomped on the now ruined draping into the sitting room carpet. She threw open a window and turned around to stare daggers into him.

“You are a grown ass man, Sherlock.” Joan would reply calmly, anger ebbing in. “You don’t need babysitting. But you could do with an ass-whooping to go along with the childish fits you throw.”

Mycroft sent a new draperies and Joan was sated, though every now and then she would cast glances to it and then him, and he would be secretly pleased at the attention.

He wouldn’t admit that aloud, though.

In addition to his list of positives, He had made a separate list of the things that he disliked about Joan as well. The fact that she responded to all of his corrections and reponses to anything he did to her with some sort of threat or actual violence should have topped the list. When she hit, she hit him hard. The bruises that would appear on his thin arms the next day as he showered should have told him that maybe he should have regretted setting her favorite jumper on fire or poured acid on her new hair brush. The worse of them all had to be her terrible taste in men.

Ever since Joan had started working at the clinic, Sherlock felt like his world was getting more and more interrupted by sick idiots who thought that if they gave Joan a pretty smile and coughed a little more pathetically than the next, they would find their cure between her legs. Sherlock, set out to protect Joan from further damage, as she wasn’t all that bright in the first place. He expected her attitude to change towards him, to be a little more grateful and appreciative of him than she was. Sherlock liked to be the center of her universe, and he told her that once after he pointed out that the latest loser, her fifth date, was a Caucasian man who was fired from his last 4 jobs for the sexual harassment of 7 women, all black.

“Did you really have to do that?!” Joan yelled as the conquest scurried hurriedly from the flat. Sherlock continued to type on his laptop, replying to messages on his Science of Deduction forum.

“A thank you will suffice Joan,’ he replied calmly, not looking up. “I was saving you from future heartbreak. Rather break it to you now than when you came home, after he would try to propose to you.”

“Ugggh,” Joan groaned, sitting across from him. She placed her head on the table and rolled it back and forth. “That’s it. I’ll never have a decent boyfriend, never get married. My life is over. I’m destined to be alone. My destiny is to have no life at all.”

“No worries,” Sherlock replied. “Not everyone is meant for marriage. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. You’re better off without it.”

Joan was quiet after he said his speech, and when he looked up he saw that she looked at him with a type of shock in his eyes. Then her eyes squinted, she intertwined her fingers together and placing them across the top of her lips. “You know, if I wasn’t too bright, I’d say you were trying to make me feel better.”

“You’re not,” Sherlock agreed; looking back down to finish his post, then closed his laptop. “Sentiment tells me to let you know that meeting me was the best day of your life. Besides,” He looked up at her again and smirked. “ I’d be lost without my blogger.”

Joan looked as if she wanted to say something else but her mouth stayed shut. She turned her head to look out the window, a smile ghosting in the corners of her lips. They sat in silence the rest of the evening, until Joan rose to make him another cup of tea then bid her goodnights, slowly walking up the stairs to her bedroom.

A few moments after the door to her room closed, he took a sip of his mug. There was too much tea and not enough milk and sugar.

Then he realized, finishing it, he was perfectly okay with it.

Though he wouldn’t admit that to her aloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I'm doing a good job mixing in stuff from the original BBC show into this story.
> 
> I feel that this part of the story may have 20 chapters to it but I'm going to hold off on posting an ending chapter number up top until i get my shit together. But stuff is coming up so if you're a bit bored, stay tuned or come back in about 6 chapters....
> 
>  
> 
> You're Welcome.


	11. A Troubling Day: Joan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A troubling phone call. A troubling lunch with friends. A troubling sick girl. A troubling Strange Man.
> 
>  
> 
> What's a girl to do on a troubling day like today? Why, plan a date to the circus of course!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY VALENTINES DAY... or night in my case. I meant to upload this in reply to having 500 views/reads on AO3 but i thought this was better cause love...and everyone loves Sherlock, right?!
> 
> Starting from now, I'm going to make the chapters super long, making sure to get every bit of detail in the words as i possibly can. Shit gets serious starting this chapter so hang on, aight?!  
>  
> 
> I'm trying to keep true to the BBC story while not be too true to the story. I think I'm doing okay.
> 
> I put John's loves from the show in there just to give Joan a bit of a life. She's lived in London for almost two years now so she has to have met some people right?! Three Continents Wastson is loved by everyone too, as far as i can tell. 
> 
>  
> 
> P.S: As for Mary Morstan, she has a place, just not as of yet so don't consider/ think of this Mary as Mary Morstan because she's not that Mary. 
> 
> I've got some stuff planned in the meantime but she's coming, believe me.

_< Present day-Fall: October>_

 

Something wasn’t right. Joan knew that right away. The usual dreams she had as of late, of running through the fields with Idris Alba when he somehow magically morphed into a tall, pale alien type being with a cupid’s bow mouth and cheekbones sharper than a knife started to change when a sharp ringing echoed throughout the land. The sound would stop and then start, repeating until Joan opened her eyes in the real world, and threatened to throw her phone out of the window.

“What Sherlock?” Joan growled into the phone, answering without checking the caller-id. The only idiot who would be so inconsiderate to call her so early, 4:45AM was plastered across the analog clock next to her bed.

“Sorry, I think I have the wrong numbah,” A nervous voice said on the other end. Joan felt that she knew the voice but something seemed off about it.

“Who is this?”

“Um….Can I speak to Joan Watson?”

“This is she?” Joan shot back, confused. “Who is this?”

“It...” The voice paused and Joan was not in the mood to play with prank callers. “It’s Harriet, Jay.”

Joan’s eyes widened. Of all the people she expected to hear from, her sister was the very last person she thought would call her out of the blue, for anything.

“Harry?” Joan asked, dumbly. She sat up quickly, a pain shooting though her wounded left shoulder. “What is it, what’s wrong? Who died? Is it momma? Is momma okay?!”

The questions rattled on until her sister’s nervous voice gave a nervous laugh.

“You always worrin’ ‘bout shit like that. Can’t I just call you to see how you doin’ or is that too good for you now?” Harry asked tone annoyed.

“Well, if someone gave a second thought to their sister or the rest of their family instead of where their next drink was coming from, I wouldn’t have to.” Joan shot back. This exactly was the reason why Joan refused to have anything to do with her older sister anymore. Every time they talked, they argued or had a disagreement about something, mainly her sister’s love affair with Jack Daniels and Capitan Morgan. They were both quiet until Joan gave a heavy sigh and lay back onto her pillow.

“If it’s nothing about the family, what is it Harry? Are you okay, has something happened to you?”

“Victor Trevor got out last week.”

Joan shot up, ignoring the jolt in her shoulder. “What the hell did you just say?”

“Vic is out,” Harry replied, voice quivering and quiet. ‘They released him on good behavior last week.”

“Why are you just telling me this?’ Joan asked, angry.

“I was just told when I got home from work this morning.” Harry whined. “Checked my machine when I came into the door 10 minutes ago and his voice was the last one I heard.”

“How’d he get your number?”

“…Momma.”

 _God, dammit!_ Joan thought to herself, slapping her hand against her forehead. _This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening. Of course momma would have given it to him, always had a soft spot for the fucking psychopath. This cannot be happening to me._

“Shit, of course.” Joan groaned. “Of course she would have given it to him. Still thinks that that son of a bitch is innocent after everything that’s happened.” Joan balanced the phone between her shoulder and her ear, using the hand to massage her left shoulder. Still felt like yesterday.

“Jay, what…what are you going to do?”

Joan stopped massaging and pulled he phone away from her ear, looking at it confused.

“What the hell you mean ‘What am I going to do?’” She whispered loudly into the phone. “I can’t do anything, Harriet. I am over four thousand miles away, harry! I can’t do anything! The question is: what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Harriet began to cry. “I-I'm not sure. I mean… he got my number Joan! I tried calling momma and telling her not to say anything to him, but she wouldn’t hear it. What if he has my house number too?”

That immediately worried Joan. The pain in her shoulder seemed to be creaming now and Joan gritted her teeth, laying down in fetal position.

 _This ain’t over bitch_. She could hear his deep, dark voice now. _I’m gettin’ that ass and I’m gettin’ it good. Just you wait. It’s over._

“Listen to me and listen to me well Harry,” Joan warned. “Do not, I repeat, do not go anywhere near Victor Trevor, do you hear me? Go about ya’ business; don’t give him or anyone that still fucks with him the time of day. If he tries to get in touch with your or if he sees you somewhere you leave and get somewhere safe where you can call me immediately, you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Harry sniffed. ‘I hear ya’.”

“I mean it Harry; stay the hell away from that psycho.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” She sniffed again then started to laugh. “Shit, it’s almost like you still over here.”

“Well I know you are incapable of staying out of trouble so I still gotta’ get into yo’ ass every chance I get, even overseas!” Joan laughed as well.

“Speaking of overseas,” Harry started. “How’s you and your white boy doin’? He holdin’ it down?”

‘There is nothing to hold on to because he isn’t holdin’ on to me.” Joan answered quickly. Since the blog of her adventures with Sherlock Holmes started, Joan had gotten a lot of feedback from people interested in Sherlock. In an letter she wrote her mother telling about her staying in London and her blog, lots of her old friends and many more family members found it funny to call, write, email and skype her about her and your ‘boy-toy’ Sherlock Holmes. Joan was lucky that these times Sherlock was nearly always downstairs moping about or out and about in London, annoying someone else, namely Lestrade, for a few hours while she got in a little family time.

“I know he trying to hit it girl,” Harry teased. “You can’t lie to me. I know you into weird dudes just like him. I bet he tryin’ to pet that kitty every chance he get.”

“Do you talk to your mother with that mouth?’ Joan groaned, hoping to keep the smile from being evident in her voice.

“Naw, I don’t. But I bet you kiss Mr. Detective with yours. I bet you even lettin’ him hit erry chance he get.”

“Sherlock Holmes and I are strictly associates and roommates, nothing more.” Joan replied straight, hoping the slight flush she felt hadn't been evident in her voice. Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes: Roommates, Partners…couple?

They had been living with one another for a while, and he did seem keener to her than to anyone else, while she kinda’ felt the same about him. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, it actually had a nice ring to it. Well, maybe she did want to admit it, just…not right now. At least, not until she found out how Sherlock would feel about it.

“I’m not saying anything else ‘till I find out what he feels about me first and nothing else. Besides, if I can get over the fact that I want to kill him more than I want to make passionate love to him, it’d be smooth sailing. But I’m digressin’, we not talking about me right now. We _are_ talking about you. Other than everything else, you alright; you taking care of yourself?”

“Of course,” Harry sighed heavily. “I’ve been working double shifts as of late, trying to save up a bit of money.”

“Oh, what for?”

“I need to get outta’ here,” Harry answered tiredly.” This place is literally draining me. The ‘Ville isn’t doing what it used to for me. I’m sick and tired over everyone and everything. Maybe I‘ll come over there and live where you at. I actually already have a good amount saved up.”

“London is a big enough place for you,” Joan replied, turning over. The sun was beginning to raise, an orange and yellow haze breaking through the clouds. “I’m not sure about how many job opportunities are here but I’m pretty sure I could help you find something if you came here.”

Joan felt a little unease about having her sister so far away from her comfort zone. She rarely went out of town to see out of state relatives, but with the new danger her sister could be in, Joan was half tempted to text Emma to tell her father she needed a favor, ASAP. But Joan didn’t consider herself the type of woman to use people like that. She’d figure something out on her own, and if her sister was saving up like she said she was, it’d happen on their own sooner rather than later.

“I’ll look around to see what apartments and jobs are open around here and I’ll email you. We can skype to talk face to face about them. Who knows, maybe you’ll find your future over here.”

“Like you?”

“Possibly, though I’m not sure what my future here will entail. I’m just holding out living today before working out tomorrows plan.”

“I feel you on that. Besides, who knows for me as well? Maybe I could find my own white boy to sex up and go on adventures with. You sound really happy.”

“You know, I’m this close to disowning your ass.”

“Love you too, baby sis.”

“Take care of yourself, idiot. Call me if anything goes down or…even if you need to talk to someone. I’m here.”

“Oh, I will. Kiss your boyfriend for me.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

Harry laughed uproariously before hanging up the phone. Joan hung her up too and nearly threw the phone through the window before she noticed how bright outside it was.

There seemed to rarely be any really beautiful days in London, Joan mused looking out her bedroom window. There always seemed to be an abundance of clouds or the permanent residence of a chilly wind whipping through the city, forever keeping the visitors and permanent Londoners in slightly heavy jackets and coats. When Joan finally rose, the sun was shining beautifully through the window and Joan hurriedly stood in front of it, allowing the warm beams to warm her skin and her toes. He phone began to ring again on her bed and for a moment, Joan expected the worst.

“Hello?”

“Joan!” Sarah yelled into the receiver after Joan answered it.

“Do you have to do that?” Joan yelled into her own phone’s receiver, holding it away from her ear.

“What are you doing today?” Sarah asked quieter, avoiding the question.

“Nothing really,” Joan lied. _Nothing besides freaking the fuck out_. “Why, what’s up?”

“Well, the girls and I are going out for a lunch date and I wanted to know if you’d like to come with us.”

“Um, well,” Joan started, really unsure. The past few months had been insane and she was having a time balancing out her personal life with her work at the clinic.

Since they met, Joan went on case after case after case with Sherlock. Their most recent case, involving a secret group of Chinese smugglers and a missing jade hairpin, had taken up nearly the entire week. Sherlock had requested the books from two of the smugglers, two men who had worked for said secret group and had been murdered in retaliation of the missing pin, from Scotland Yard to figure out a code that would help find out where the exchange would happen. They received the books early one morning and Joan didn’t get to bed for two straight days afterwards. They both stayed in the sitting room, going through each and every single book in the 18 crates that took up every single empty space.

Before she knew it, she was waking up at the window table with her phone was going off on the table next to her, an angry phone call from Sarah wondering where the hell she was because she was supposed to be at work yesterday and her and Mary had to cover for her, again.

“Are you sure you want me to come? I don’t think Jeanette’s done being angry with me.”

“Don’t worry,” Sarah reassured her. “I’ve known Jean for years now. She’ll have a bit of a sulk then go right back to being fine. Don’t let it get you down! Come and have some fun with us, you of all people need it.”

Jeanette, Sarah, Mary were the only female friends Joan had managed to make in the year she’d been living in London. Not that Joan wasn’t the type to easily make friends or anything; she was just slow to find the ones she was comfortable being around. Many times she would go out for walks in St. Regent’s park or down to the pub that Lestrade introduced her to maybe seek a couple of girl’s out to sit or chat with but instead she got many, many men, both black and white, that walked up to her either really fucking drunk, creepy or just didn’t seem her type. Their eyes lingered a little too low and a little too long on her breasts, hands got a smudge too feel-y on her arms, hips and on a random case, her ass.

So, Joan had reserved her fate to being the only trusted token black friend to a consulting detective, his niece, his ‘Big Brother’ big brother, and a Detective Inspective that was the only sane person in the gathering of fools. She would have included herself but she went willingly into this relationship so there was no one to blame but herself.

_A trusting relationship: is that what I’m calling us these days?_

“Fine, sure,” Joan sighed. “I’ll come. How about we meet at Angelo’s?”

“See you around 1:30?!” Sarah asked excitedly.

“Yeah. See you then.” Joan hung up her phone and tossed it back onto her bed. The action caused her shoulder to hurt a bit, but Joan rubbed it deeply and rotated it, calming it down a bit. She walked over to her full-length mirror that was attached to the back of her door and gazed at herself in it. Joan had never been a small girl, growing up she was always a size or two larger next to the other girls, but she now realized how much better she looked. Her once flabby arms and legs seemed a bit more toned than they were before, her pudgy stomach didn’t jiggle like it used to, though it still stuck out more than she liked it to. Standing closer, she stared at her face and realized she didn’t look angry constantly like she did before; deep frown gone and her sallow skin seemed to…glow.

 _Either I’m the angel telling the Immaculate Conception or that container of raw cocoa butter I bought last week is_ _doing wonders for me_. Joan thought to herself. _Like hell I’ll try to immediately give credit to_ him.

If she sounded happier to other people, seemed to look happier to herself than she ever did before, thinking back to her sister’s comment. For a moment she thought back to when Sherlock had told her he was the best thing that ever happened to her. Her limp was gone and the secret tremor in her left hand, that used to show itself in the most inopportune times, hadn’t made an appearance since she’d shot that cabbie month ago. She was losing weight, and apparently looking damn good while doing it, and she had more energy than she ever thought she would have. Well at least she did when the Adventure-loving consulting detective didn’t push her to exhaustion nearly every day.

After getting dressed in a black and grey sweater dress, black leggings and pair of black boots, she unconsciously limped downstairs. Sherlock had obviously abandoned the fort sometime in the early morning and Joan felt a little sad not seeing his long curly head bobbing in between cases of books from apartments of two dead smugglers. Heading into the kitchen, she put the kettle on and placed a slice of bread into the toaster and reflected the phone call from her sister that morning.

Harriet never called Joan. She called every other person when she needed something, even going without until someone found out and dragged her to Joan to get her in order. Of course it wasn’t always that way. Harriet used to be someone Joan looked up to. She was going places, getting out of the ghetto to make big name for herself in some company or making her business. But of course, when niggas don’t want you to succeed they’ll come up with any excuse to keep you where they can see you, nowhere else. So, of course, sweet innocent Harriet was lured by the big bad boys in the streets and ended up destroying nearly all of her dreams. Nearly, because Joan always believed that it wasn’t too late for her sister. She could get out and make a change, if not for anyone but herself.

Joan then was considered the big sister, the one anyone and everyone called to get her sister out of trouble, or out of jail or, in the worst case she had ever dealt with, away from the abusive asshole she happened to ‘fall in love’ with. Joan had successfully gotten her away from him but at a price of her own. Joan wasn’t angry at her for what happened; all that mattered was that she was alive. Of course, everyone else made it worse by guilt tripping Harry and in return, caused her to lash out at her. Joan, loving but at the same time tired of her shit, lashed out too and then that’s all she wrote. The sisters became estranged and life seemed to be at a permanent standstill, at least for Joan it was. That was, until she met Mike Stamford and her life began to start again.

And it was great. She felt free of the guilt and anger and sadness she had stored up inside her, old therapist’s words not hers, and walked with a new outlook. Though she still felt a bit like a loner, Joan disregarded it, realizing that the people she associated with were loners in their own ways too and, in the end, counted on one another, especially Sherlock.

Now she could add three more people to her list of friends and associates: Sarah, Jeanette and Mary. Sarah was a brown haired, blue-eyed bundle of energy, flirtatious, sarcastic, and somehow, always smiling. She covered Joan’s shifts when she called out, sometimes called her out on it with a scathing remark but always forgiving when Joan brought her a slice of cake she made or a night’s dinner to eat for lunch.

Jeanette was a dark haired, tan skinned schoolteacher that worked at the clinic on every other weekend of the month for extra cash. Sarah had introduced her to after they first met and Joan couldn’t help that Jeanette was less excited about the meeting than Sarah was, mainly because she went on and on about the ‘Famous Mr. Holmes’ Joan lived with.

Mary, the blonde haired brown- woman of the group kept more to herself. She was kind, polite, and someone Joan easily got along with. She kept the foursome calm, gave a listening ear whenever anyone needed one and, last not least, didn’t catch an attitude when Joan came into the clinic late after Joan spent all-nighters with Sherlock. Joan was thankful every time Mary answered the phone hear her call off or call in late and not the others.

The toaster dinged and Joan ate her toast dry with a cup of tea, English breakfast was the only tea they left since Joan went shopping at the beginning of the month. She mulled about the flat for a few hours, straightening up and placing books that were strewn across the floor haphazardly into the giant carts they came from. She washed had started to wash the dished that had become a mountain in and on the seat when she checked the clock. Joan took a leisurely stroll to Angelo’s, enjoying the crisp autumn air on the way. When Joan arrived, everyone had already arrived, and surprisingly, to them at least, Joan wasn’t late, and they made sure she knew.

“I’m surprised you found time for us at all,” Jeanette smirked. “Being the servant of Sherlock Holmes must me a full time job.”

“Jean,” Mary scolded. She looked at Joan and apologized. “I’m sorry Joan. We all know you have a separate life away from the clinic just like everyone else.” She shot a sideways look to Jeanette who in turn huffed and stared down at her glass of water. “Is this case any good?”

So Joan told them about the smugglers and how Sherlock figured out that they were murdered over something one of them stole and they had been working on deciphering a code the smugglers used when their lead witness was killed. She made sure to keep out the fact that she had, in the meantime, gotten an Anti-social behavior order, an _ASBO_ she later found out it was shortly called, and kept names and a new, tough as nails young Detective Inspector’s name from the story. She then made sure to tell how Joan had spent the last 3 days mulling over hundreds of books that she was sure, in no certain terms, he was planning on coveting some of them when they would be returned when the case was over. Two of the friends laughed at this last information, one didn’t.

“I can’t believe that!” Sarah exclaimed. “Three complete days, huh? No wonder you were passed out in your office!”

“Yeah,” Joan agreed embarrassed, taking a sip of cooling English breakfast. “That was the reason I was late two days ago. I spent all night previous going through them, taking notes. I was passed out when you called.”

“I can’t believe he’d be so inconsiderate knowing you had to work.” Jeanette cut in. “Especially when he has others dong his work for him.”

“It wasn’t so inconsiderate,” Joan defended, eyes slightly squinting at her. This was a constant thing, Jeanette shit talking Sherlock. Nearly anytime Joan had to call off or came in late, more than a few times her own fault for oversleeping, Jeanette had something to say about ‘The Great Sherlock Holmes’. Okay, yeah, sometimes he did deserve it. The constant experiments on her things, annoying text messages while she was with patients at the clinic, nearly getting her killed with every new case he took on, and 2am wake-up violin’s gave Joan more than enough reason to cuss him the hell out, but for others to do so when they felt it was their right to? She had an enormous problem with that.

“He was even so considerate to put a blanket over my shoulders while I slept. Besides, it’s not his job to keep up with my schedule, it’s mine. If you’re going to be mad at someone, be mad at me and stop bringing him up like he works for you. Or better yet, how about you go and give him a good talking to so you can stay the hell off my back.”

Everyone at the table quieted, while Jeanette sputtered. Joan turned and looked out the window, trying to keep her eyes off the offending party when a little blonde girl standing outside twirling a black umbrella caught her eye. She nearly choked when the girl made eye contact and waved a dainty little wave.

“Excuse me for a moment,” She coughed out and stepped away quickly.

“What’s wrong Emma?” Joan asked walking out the door, looking down at the little girl. Today she was dressed in a black and white dress with little….bats strategically placed on it.

“Sherlock needs you right now.” She said simply, twirling the handle of her parasol in a circle. “He says that he still needs your help with going through the rest of the books.”

“Did you tell him I was busy with friends?” Joan asked her, nodding her head back towards the window. Stealing a glance to the side, she could see the three women talking, or if she was positive, having a slight disagreement.

“I did but he said that they don’t really like you.” Emma looked sideways into the window as well. “I can clearly see what he means. The one with the dark hair in a bun hates you, the blonde feels sorry for you and the longer haired blonde is in love with you.”

Emma looked back up at her, face an uncaring nonchalance. Joan stared down at her, struck silent. She had pretty much felt that that was the way the women felt about her, but put so bluntly, and in the form of a 7 year old as well. Sometimes Joan really wondered if the angel faced girl really was human and not a 100 year old demon in human skin.

“Can we go now?” Emma asked, stopping then twirling her parasol again.

“Um, yeah just….hang on.” Joan took a final glance at the girl then walked back in to the restaurant. The trio at the table was suddenly silent and looked at her.

“Sherlock needs me for…stuff.” What did he really want anyway? “Is it okay if we set up another date for tonight, at that circus?”

The three women seated exchanged glances and Sarah went to open her mouth when Jeanette spoke first.

“Everyone here is so wrong about you Joan. You’re a great girlfriend.” Jeanette said suddenly.

“Uhmmm, okay. Thanks?” Joan replied, buttoning her coat. “I kinda already…. _guessed_ I was?”

“Jean, please.” Mary said softly, looking imploringly at Jeanette as looked down impatiently at her watch. Joan didn’t feel good about what was probably going to come from her mouth.

“No, I mean it. It’s heartwarming. You’ll do anything for him. Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man.”

 **“** I would just appreciate it if you didn’t make us compete with Sherlock Holmes.” She replied, words hard.

Joan’s mouth wanted to go into an immediate frown but froze when the words digested a bit. First the phone call from her sister, now this.

“There’s no competition for you sweetheart,” Joan replied smartly. “Because he is better than you in every way.”

The women looked up at her again.

“Excuse me?” Jeanette gasped, slamming her hands on the table. “What do you mean by that? That man is nothing but a smart arse that gets off on making you his flunky.

“You don’t see him like I do,” Joan interrupted, explain calmly, a trait she developed when dealing with strangers she became angry with. She thought a second of how it worked for other people but with Sherlock it went from zero to 60 and she was yelling at him or punching him in the arms. “Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant man. He can figure out where you’re from or where you’ve been just by looking at your face or your shoes or you coat. He knows you’re innermost thoughts just by talking to you and he talks for days on end, even if no one is there and experiments on my favorite sweaters and shoes and my hair straightener, stores body parts all over the house and when I ask him about them, he then plays all innocent and runs out of the house, which reminds me I have to get on him about the dismembered torso I found in the bathtub. He can solve puzzles and crimes that no one else can, and he rarely asks or even receives payment for them and if they are interesting enough, he’ll hope around for days on end like a jackrabbit and sleep for 30 minutes before he’s on the wire again. He listens to what I have to say and even though he calls me an idiot or a moron, he takes the time to tell me why I’m wrong and he kinda admits he needs me when he’s having a hard time on a case or an equation for his projects or when he needs a willing, listening ear. Sherlock is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He’s a very good man and, if we’re all very lucky, I’ll be able to prove he’s a great one.”

Joan picked up her teacup and took a long sip from it, finishing her tea and took a slow glance around the table at everyone. Jeanette looked like she was about to barf and the Mary’s face was a complete blank which would have worried her if she cared about her opinion. As a matter of fact she felt that she didn’t care for the three of them at all, and finished her tea, placing her mug on the table.

“I’m going back to Baker Street.” Joan said, looking at Emma outside. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“Uh, wait!” Sarah exclaimed, grabbing Joan’s arm with one hand and holding up her ticket with the other. “I would love to go to that circus tonight. Wouldn’t you guys?”

She looked around the table at the other three imploringly.

“I…” Mary started, gathering her things. “I got some stuff to do tonight so I’ll have to pass.” She passed her ticket to Sarah and stood. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“I don’t _like_ the circus,” Jeanette said, a touch of anger in the attitude. She tossed her ticket onto the table and stood to leave herself. “Maybe you should invite your precious Sherlock to it instead.”

“He was the one who left the tickets for me to give to you.” Joan said calmly, giving her a hard look. “Said that my friends would enjoy going with me; I can obviously see he was wrong about both.”

Jeanette opened her mouth then closed it, then looked down.

“Okay then!” Sarah exclaimed, clamming her hands together. “It’s a date then!”

Joan nodded stiffly and walked away, her leg slightly cramping. This was getting to be a very difficult day.

Joan met Emma back outside and walked with her towards Bakers Street. She stopped a few houses down, and rubbed annoyed at her leg, angrily trying to message a shooting pain out of it.

“Are you okay?” Emma asked, tilting her head at her. She had walked ahead a bit, and then came back when she realized Joan wasn’t beside her.

“I’m just fine.” Joan bit out. “I’m just… I’m having a bit of a bad day.”

Emma smiled. “Well, you're going back to Uncle now. It can only get better from here.” Joan laughed at Emma’s joke.

“I would hope so.” Joan looked at the young girl and for the first time noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the slight slush brightening her face. “The question is: are you feeling okay? You look exhausted.”

Emma brought a small hand to her shocked face, patting at different spots on it.

“Does it show? I’ve been having a little trouble sleeping. ” She asked. Joan took her own hand and brought it to the girl’s face, feeling the too warm forehead.

‘Honey, you have a fever.” Joan replied, going into doctor mode. “How long have you had this?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s anything major.” Emma replied smartly, waving Joan’s hand away. She whirled her heels and started walking, more like wavering to Joan’s clinically trained eye, towards 221B. “Come along now Sherlock is waiting.”

“Emma,” Joan called, jogging to catch up to the girl who was opening the flat door. “Emma!”

Joan grabbed the girl’s arm as she let down her parasol, looking at Joan with foggy blue eyes.

“I want you to go upstairs to the bathroom and take some of the Children’s Tylenol in the cabinet.” Joan instructed her. “Stay there and I’ll get in touch with Mycroft. Surely he needs to know hi- “

“I am fine.” Emma interrupted, snatching her arm away from her. The action caused her to lose her balance a bit, and she nearly toppled over before Joan grabbed her again, steading her.

“Oh, no you ain’t,” Joan corrected her, the child’s orneriness reminding her of the man a flight of stairs above them. “You are going to do exactly as I say or I will man-handle you into doing it myself.”

Emma gave her a steely look then sighed deeply, reminding her then of her ever exhausted father. “Fine, fine. Just…don’t tell father until I get a little bit better. I just need a little sleep and I’ll be fine. I promise you, now let’s go.”

Emma held out a small hand to her, parasol in the other, and Joan took it, walking upstairs to the flat. Joan made sure not to reply to the promise, walking a slower to allow the drowsy girl to stay in tune with her steps. Poor thing looked as if she was about to bowl over and Joan wanted to pick her up and cuddle her like she was her own child. The seven year old, who had just celebrated a birthday earlier in the summer, always seemed more put together than anyone she knew, especially the adults, so seeing her like this extremely worried her.

Walking in, Sherlock was steadily throwing books around the large carts, large stacks on the floor, her lazy-y-boy chair, and the window table.

“What do you want Sherlock?” Joan asked, her already worrisome mood over the girl slowly making her way to the bathroom down the hall successfully keeping her from getting angry at him. She was always the one to clean up after Sherlock when he, and only he, would come through like a hurricane and destroy it. On some occasions, he even had the nerve to ask her why the flat was a mess, disregarding the fact that his messy ass was the one who fucked it up in the first place.

“Oh good, you’re back.” He sighed, throwing a handful of books into a cart. “I need to get some air. We’re going out tonight.”

“I actually have a date tonight.” She said proudly. “Well, kinda like a date.”

 _It’s with a girl but I guess it could still be considered a date if what Emma said was true,_ she thought, beaming to herself. _Not mad though. Even the ladies love a little bit of ‘Three-Continents Watson’._

“What?” Sherlock asked like it was impossible.

“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun?”

“That’s what I was suggesting.” A look Joan couldn’t quite read flickered across his face.

“No it wasn’t.” Joan replied disbelieving. “At least, I hope not.”

Then, if Joan Watson’s eyes really weren’t deceiving her and just her angry haze was getting in the way, she could have sworn a look of disappointment flashed across his face.

“So where are you taking him?” He asked weaving his way through the carts towards her.

“Uh,” Joan stuttered, caught up in his features. “We’re going to the circus. I got those tickets you left for me.”

He gave her a surprised look. “Ah, yes, in London for one night only.”

“Yeah, surprisingly I decided to take you up on your offer. I invited the others but…they had other plans so they can’t come.”

 _Good riddance to bad rubbish_ , Joan thought annoyed.

“I’m surprised I took your dating advice.”

“My dating advice,” He replied, smirking. Something was off about the detective and Joan was put off about it.

“I’m, uh…I’m going to check on Emma.” She pointed her thumb back towards the stairs leading to her room. “I’ll be back in a little to help you clean this up, which you will be doing or I will personally make sure your microscope finds its way to glory from under a hammer.”

Joan left him with a different look of surprise, mixed with horror and disgust if she was good at cataloging the many faces of Sherlock Holmes, and made her way upstairs to the little girl.

Knocking twice softly on the door, she made her way into the room, where a pale face blinked blankly at her from under the covers.

“I think I really am sick,” Emma’s already quiet voice, sounded weaker. “I think I might be dying.”

“You’re not dying,” Joan reassured her chuckling a bit. ‘The worst case is that you just have a cold. You don’t get sick very often do you?”

“Nnn-Hnn,” Emma shook her head solemnly. Joan went over to her and settled herself on the edge of the bed. Taking her hand, she smoothed the soft baby hairs from the girl’s face and placed her palm on her cheek. They both stayed quiet as Joan babied the girl, pulling the covers up to her chin, fluffing the pillow behind her head and quickly running downstairs to get her a glass of water, where she found that Sherlock was AWOL, again.

“That man is going to be the death of me.” She mumbled making her way back up. When she stepped back in, Emma had sat up and was looking strangely serious at Joan.

“What’s wrong?” Joan asked, placing the glass on the bedside table.

“Has he told you yet?” Emma asked fevered face curious.

“Who told me what?”

“Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. Has he told you?”

Joan raised a confused eyebrow. “Told me…”

“How he feels. For you.” Emma splayed her hands. ‘Surely he’s done it by now. He said he was going to do it when I brought you back! I don’t know why he’d hesitate to tell you, he’s got no reason to. He’s had to have done it right?!So what you say?”

Joan went to the now excited girl and gently placed her hands on her shoulders, pushing her back down.

“You’re exhausted, Emma,” Joan cooed softly. “Just lay down and-”

“He’s in love with you!” Emma exclaimed, clutching tightly to Joan’s forearms. “He’s so desperately in love with you he can’t stand it! That’s why he does what he does! Don’t you see, don’t you see! It’s so blatantly obvious!”

Joan was struck silent.

_Maybe the ramblings of a fevered mind?_

“Emma, honey, you should- “”

Emma slung her arms around, disconnecting Joan’s grip from her.

“Don’t be an idiot!” Emma growled angrily. “I’m telling you the absolute and reasonable truth and all you can talk about is my fever. _Yes_ , I have a fever. _Yes_ , I am damn sick. But that has nothing to do with the fact that the most clever man in the world wants to tell you his undying love and he’s too terrified of running you off than to just say so. Sherlock Holmes loves you and if you can’t bloody well see that then you don’t deserve to be happy!”

Then she slammed her head down on the pillow and flung the covers over her head, successfully burying herself away from the outside world. Joan stood back in complete shock and silence, unsure what to say, or do for that matter.

Emma solved her problem by flipping the covers away from her and said, “Thank you for my water. You can go and be unhappy someplace else now.”

She flipped the covers back over her head and Joan left the room.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emma's clothes for this chapter are found on the Interracial Sherlock blog
> 
> Here (Dress): http://blackwatson23.tumblr.com/post/111040217068/ojouu-bat-blouse-dress-from-himi-enter
> 
> and Here (Parasol/Umbrella): http://blackwatson23.tumblr.com/post/111040750583/truth2teatold-rain-house-princess-umbrellas


	12. Chapter Complete: Romance in Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How would a consulting detective figure out how to seduce his ever clueless blogger? 
> 
> Sherlock Holmes would tell you if he knew, but since he doesn't, he'll have to go through trial and error too...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back, back again-gain? BlackWatson23's back, back. Tell a friend, friend....  
> this chapter is finally finished and now I can do more simpler chapters, like Joan's. *whew* 
> 
> That was exhausting... Just to let you know, the entire time I was uploading this I was laughing like Debbie in the Addams Family...this is the scene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SsxUdI7NopE

“Of all the inconsiderate, selfish things you could ever have done to me, this takes the cake!” Joan nearly screamed in the back of the taxi heading back to Baker Street. “One night, Sherlock, that’s all I asked of you. _One_! _Bloody_! _Night_! And _what_ did I get? What the _hell_ do I get from you?! I, not to mention the only female friend not to mention half decent date I’ve managed to make in this godforsaken city, get kidnapped and damn near killed by some ancient Chinese bow and arrow thingy all because you want to be clever!”

“It’s called a…” Sherlock started to reply gently, slightly afraid that this really would be his last night on Earth.

“It’s called ‘I don’t give a damn!’” She screamed back. She pounded on the window separating them from the driver. “Stop, stop the cab please. I’m walking!”

Without being told twice, cabbie skid the cab to a stop, half terrified of the woman in the back and half relieved she wanted out, and Joan fumbled with the door handle a bit before storming out and slamming the door behind her. Sherlock threw a couple of bills that he had the foresight to prepare before he hailed it, somehow avoiding Joan’s furious yells and finger-pointing while she was patched up by an ambulance. He hurriedly got out and the cab quickly drove away into the night.

Joan had managed to walk, or stomp in her case, a few feet on the sidewalk before she was limping. They were a few streets away from Baker Street and the few people that were still out in the late evening were looking at her like an avenging angel, with shock and awe. Joan, as usual, didn’t notice and Sherlock, as always, did.

This was a troubling situation.

Nothing ever troubled Sherlock Holmes. Whether it was a case or a mystery or the answer to a scientific equation he was curious about, he got it. And he got it in the right amount of time too. When it would take Scotland Yard a few weeks or months to solve a case, it took Sherlock 36 hours up to a week, give or take. Cases from clients: 2 hours to 24, if it wasn’t an obvious 2 to 3 minute answer, the same amount of time it took for said client to tell their ungodly boring and uninteresting story. Nothing and nearly no one ever troubled Sherlock Holmes, no one maybe, except for Joan Watson, and his ever building feelings for her.

Mind you, he’d felt some…things for women before, when he was a teenager and more recently, The Woman, but they paled to what he started to feel for Joan.

It had recently started in the late spring, when he was able to work case after case after case due to the weather’s unbelievable good mood, which gave the blogging woman more to post on her blog, which made her already good mood even more unbelievably…good. This, and the fact that she was the only person he truly felt comfortable talking to, besides his brother, niece and Lestrade, the time seemed to do something to him.

People always treated Sherlock like he was an idiot in the lessons of love and of the heart. Of course, he’d be the first to admit romanticism was not a strong suit of his. He knew that the heart could make men and women do the most idiotic and dangerous trivial things, and they often came in examples of the cases they worked. Man kills cheating wife and her lover, woman kills cheating husband and his male lover, etc, etc.

So, like the sensible man he was, he removed himself as far away from those idiotic trivial things. Now, they banged on the front door of his mind palace and begged for a room to reside in, preferably in the wing where he kept things all Joan Watson. He tried to keep it a secret, as secrets were what he was good at solving for other and keeping for himself, but of course there was one who could see right through it.

“When are you going to tell Joan how you feel?’ Emma asked one day Joan had left to go to the clinic. She sat across from him in Joan chair, stocking legs dangling and swinging back and forth. She had grown in the recent months, her feet nearly touched the ground without trying and Sherlock wondered what alien species took his small niece and replaced her this.

‘What are you talking about?” He asked, plucking mindlessly at his violin.

“ _Joan_ , Sherlock. I’m talking about Joan and how you are hopelessly, madly in love with her.” Emma replied, smiling wickedly at him.

Sherlock simply looked at her and then rolled his eyes, shaking in disbelief.

“Do not give me that,” She scolded, crossing her arms over across her chest. “You think you are so clever that no one can see it, and I already know Joan can’t. She’s not too bright. She can’t see what’s in front of her, but the rest of us, we see it.”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock replied coolly. He plucked a little stronger at a violin string.

“Even Lestrade and those idiots at Scotland yard can see it. When are you going to tell her?”

Sherlock paused then met his niece’s eyes.

Sherlock wanted to say ‘Mind your own business, Emma’ but instead he asked, “Why do you care?”

Emma shrugged and picked at the hem of her lacy dress. “I just…happen to really like Joan, that’s all.”

Sherlock squinted his eyes at her. Emma didn’t like people, she was such a Holmes in that way.

Flushed cheeks, pupils widened before downcast and a small smile.

“You in love her yourself don’t you?’ Sherlock asked, coming to a realization.

Emma shrugged. “She isn’t insufferable like the rest of the women I meet every day. There’s something about her I can’t put my finger on but it’s there. I wouldn’t say that I’m _in_ love with her or anything but…” She smiled a little wider then, eyes hazy thinking of a distant memory. “Sometimes I think that if Mother was still here, she’d be exactly like her, all attitude and silliness.” She looked back down at her dress and smoothed the skirt out. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll just convince her to leave you and fall in love with Father instead of Gregory.”

“That’ll never happen,” Sherlock replied offhandedly, looking down at his violin. He moved to pluck a string when his head shot up and he seriously asked, “Who is this Gregory you keep talking about?”

“You don’t know who Gregory is?” Emma asked, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

Sherlock shrugged and shook his head. Emma, in turn, took a small hand and rubbed at her forehead. 

“Anyways,” She continued. “I believe there would be some good to come out of this relationship. You already enjoy her presence and she enjoys yours too, when you’re not being an absolute git about everything. I also see the way you look at her, all lovely eyes and heart-struck. I’ll be going away to school soon and it’s time you found someone your own age who doesn’t mind being into your company. You better make a move now before someone comes and takes her away from you.”

“And why would they do that?”

“Sentiment, Uncle Sherlock, sentiment.” Sherlock must have had a confused look on his face because the girl continued.

“If Gregory, Father and I can see how hopelessly in love with Joan you are, don’t you think others may be at least half intelligent to see the same? So, that being said, enemies can see it too, therefore they would try to get to you using the one thing you care about the most: the person you love.” She then rose from her seat and straightened out her skirt. “Just, heed my words Uncle Sherlock, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. Then what are you going to do?”

Sherlock wanted to say that he’d be fine, that he was fine before and would be fine if he did happen to leave him. By himself… like he was before.

Sherlock was never able to lie to himself like he thought he could. Damn this girl and her wisdom. Where the hell has she gotten this from?

“Sherlock, you would never guess the patient I had today!” Joan laughed, walking through the open door of the flat. “This guy thought he had the plague and…oh, Emma! I didn’t see you there, doll. How are you today?”

“I’m just fine.” Emma replied sweetly, looking back at her uncle. The mischievous glimmer in her eye worried him a slight bit but he was sure he successfully managed to hide it. “I was talking to uncle Sherlock about how I wanted you to come to my house for a tea party with father and me.”

“Oh really,” Joan asked happily. “I would love that. The last one you had was darlin’. You are one spoiled little girl.”

Emma giggled high and innocent and Sherlock wanted to ship her back to whatever hell she was spawned from.

“Maybe you could spend the night over as well. I’m sure father wouldn’t mind at all.”

Joan opened her mouth to answer when the unmistakable sound of broken strings sounded in the otherwise quiet room. Sherlock stared ahead into the kitchen, like he didn’t hear anything, face carefully void of any emption that gave away the feeling of absolute rage he felt towards his niece, and stroked the neck of the bow gently. Emma, clever girl she was, took the disguised hint and smiled sweetly at him, then back at Joan.

“I’ll think I’ll be going now. You think on that invitation then get back to me, okay?”

“Uh,’ Joan replied, slightly confused. “Yeah. That’d be okay…I think?”

Emma skipped down the stairs, laughing aloud and Sherlock was tempted to disown the girl.

After Emma left, and while Joan was laughing at the man who thought that he had the bubonic plague and polio simultaneously, Sherlock thought more about his…situation. The chemistry of love, he came to realize a long time ago, was incredibly simple and turned out, just as distracting. A terrible disadvantage for anyone involved in it, especially a man who saw, well ‘nearly saw’ a certain someone would say, everything.

But there he was, sitting across from the woman in question, watching as she tucked a strand of growing hair behind her ear, laughing about the woman who thought her daughter had caught cowpox disease.

A smart man would move away, never allowing his heart rule his head.

So, Sherlock started to do what any sensible man in his situation would do: He attempted to make a move.

That night, after Joan went to bed, he made his plans, different choices of how to confess his ‘undying love’ to Joan Watson.

The first plan: start out slow. From serious and through research he had on his, their shared computer at 3am, Sherlock found that the first step any reasonable man could make to find out if he and the woman he was interested in were compatible, was to introduce himself. Since that tedious part had long been out of the way, he found the next thing he would do is figure out what her interests were and see if his interests matched.

What did they both have in common? He decided to start with the obvious.

“What are you typing?” He asked the morning, absentmindedly flipping through a paper while standing simultaneously drinking a cup of tea. Joan was busily typing, the two fingered type she had begun to become more skilled at.

“A blog post.” She answered simply, still typing.

“About?”

“Us, of course.” She continued typing.

“You mean, me.” This was good. He could start out with things they had in common, like the cases and the blog…and him.

“Alright.” Still more typing. He stared down at her hands, while she rested to stretch and rub the fingers. She then continued.

“Ahem,” He cleared his throat, trying to get her attention. As much has he didn’t want to admit it, he liked being the center of attention, mainly hers. Joan’s, what seemed to be endless typing, seemed to always get in the way of arguments and lazy day head scrubs, which he wanted to do then. “Well, you’re typing a lot.”

She paused and looked up at him, and when she was about to say something to him, the downstairs doorbell rang, successfully getting him away from the table and his thoughts about those fingers doing something very indecent.

“Right then, so what have we got.”

That afternoon was nearly filled with boring, easily solved cases; man afraid wife was cheating on him (she wasn’t), wife afraid husband was cheating on her (he was), and a case of a trio of young men whose online comic book sequences were happening to be coming true, the most interesting case of that day now forever know on Joan’s blog as ‘The Geek Interpreter’.

He then went for other ways like being a knight in shining armor which went from heroic to heroically disastrous and ended with Joan, himself and the suspect taking a messy tumble into the Thames. Fortunately for him she didn’t yell at him but did get into Sergeant Donovan for insulting and making fun of him about it. Lestrade didn’t say a word to him about the incident, admonishing Donovan about aggravating Sherlock and ended with Joan swinging a well-aimed fist into her nose, nearly breaking it.

He might admit, as Donovan held her bleeding nose and he himself laughed full heartedly, that he fell a bit more in love with her.

 A blind man could see that Sherlock was not a romantic. He knew what romance was, of course, saw it on the telly, in the couples he would nonchalantly observe through 221B’s sitting room window in between breaks of typing numbers about numbers 145 through 152 of his analysis of tobacco ash, saw it in the romance novels Joan swears she only reads for “educational purposes only.”

Whatever that may… _oh_ , now he realizes _. Now I get it. How absolutely dull._

 _Unlike Joan,_ he loved a good mystery and as mysteries go, the heart was the most amazing one of all.

 Especially the heart of Joan Watson.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” He finally admitted, mumbling to himself and thinking it over. He sat in his chair a few evenings later across from Joan, hunched over, chin resting on his hands, studying the object of his desire (?) closely.

Joan continued to read her sappy romance, eyebrows lifting in curiosity.

“Hmm?” She commented.

“What does an individual do to demonstration his affections on another?” Sherlock asked offhandedly, more to himself. Joan knitted her eyebrows together and looked at him. He still stared, noting the way her forehead didn’t wrinkle when she did that. _Interesting…_

“What do you mean?” She asked, curious. “Is this for a case?”

“No,” He replied, still staring. “This is a part of my own constant inquisitiveness of the mysteries of life Joan, nothing more.”

“Oh,” Joan replied, nodding in understanding. Then, “Wait, so you’re asking me?”

“Of course.” Sherlock responded, raising his head up. “You’re a…worldly woman. You’ve slept with plenty, so it would only be understandable that I ask you. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Seriously,” Joan asked incredulous, leaning her head back and looking at the ceiling. She looked back at him, the glimmer of a smile on the corner of her lips. “’Worldly woman?’ Are you calling me a whore, Sherlock?”

“What? No!” He nearly shouted. “I just…no, due to your obvious carnal knowledge, I thought it would be wise to learn

“Anyway,” She interrupted. “What are you planning to do with my infinite knowledge of romance? Is there a certain someone you’re interested in?”

“No.”

“Liar,” She shot back immediately and he could feel the blush creep up into his cheeks. She looked at him, a face of absolute shock and he rose to make his way into the kitchen. Joan, hurriedly followed suit and managed to scoot herself in front of him before he could sit.

“You do, don’t you!” She asked excited, jumping up and down on the balls of her feet. “Oh, I fucking knew it! You’ve been acting so weirdly lately I should have seen it coming…no no, I know. You see Joan but you do not observe yadda, yadda, yadda.’” She looked at him and “Is it someone I know? Who is it?”

“It’s…” he started and then stopped. This was his chance! This was a perfect timing that he needed to be able

“It’s….no…one.”

“No one?”

“No one you know.” He said solemnly. _Damn._

“Well, can’t you tell me anything about her?” Joan pried.

“I don’t want to give up the mystery this soon.”

“Oh I see, you wanna’ play 20 questions wit’ me. I see, I see what chu’ doin’. Alrighty then…well, will you tell me somethin’? What race is she? Is she…is she _black_?”

“Yes.” He nodded, staying silent.

“Is it anyone I know?”

“Maybe?” _It’s you._

“Okay,” She said nodded, like she was understanding something he didn’t see. “Is she…smart?”

“Not really, but she does her best.”

“Hmm,” She mumbled, a hand lifted and the fingers tapped against her chin. “What to ask next? What to ask next?”

“I believe your deductive skills are coming along nicely.” He said offhandedly, watching as she began to pace in front of him.”

“Hmm, huh? Really?” She said offhandedly. She was really rummaging through her brain for questions. “Well, I have a really good teacher who just so happens to be a very knowledgeable consulting detective. Okay, next question: Is she tall?”

“To herself.”

“To herself?” Joan asked curious.

“She talks and acts as if she’s 10ft tall but she’s much smaller than me.”

“Smaller? Is she _skinny_?” She said the word face scrunched up, as if it was a sour lemon.

“No.”

“So she thick?” Surprise in that tone. He must have looked surprised because she explained further. “Thick! You know, fat. Large…plus size.

“Hmmm,” How to wisely answer that question? “My hands are never without.”

She stared at him in absolute shock and a grin slowly widened on her face. She crossed her arms and nodded at him. “Oh, Okay, big poppa’. I get chu’. Alright then… Is she cute?”

“Very.” _You are very cute._

“Is she cuter than me?”

“No.” He shot back immediately and commanded the blush in his face to stay away. Joan however, smiled gently and lifted her hand to pat his cheek. Her hand was warm and soft and he resisted the urge to nuzzle against it.

“Well,” Joan sighed, taking her hand away. “As long as she is taking care of you I guess I can allow this match to continue. Are you planning on bringing her here to meet me?”

“Why would I do that?” He asked quietly, missing her warmth that slowly dissipated from his face.

“Well obviously if you’re in the business of ruining all of my dates, you’ll have to at least give me a chance to do the same to yours. Do you love her?”

They locked eyes for a moment and he felt his tongue dance behind his teeth.

 _Tell her,_ his mind raced. _Tell her tell hertellhertellhertellherTELLHERTELLHER_!

“It’s too soon to tell.” He replied instead.

“Well, I do sometimes trust your judgment on things like this. Just, make sure you take good care of her. Okay?”

He nodded.

She stared at him in return a moment more, brown eyes searching, then rolled them and went back to her chair and picked up her discarded book.

He ignored the way his heart hammered in his chest and sat down dumbly at the kitchen table.

The months went on, and she forgot about his secret girlfriend. And he never thought about telling her again.

That is, until Emma stormed into the flat one late evening after Joan left the flat an hour before, heading to the pub to have a pint with someone named Greg, and left him behind to check his emails on her laptop. They were taking a break from their current case, involving a pair of dead smugglers and a Chinese smuggling ring, and Sherlock was steadfastly trying not to think about her. _Probably another future relationship doomed to fail from the start_ , he thought when the little princess slammed her hands suddenly on the kitchen table, startling out of his reverie.

“Why haven’t you told Joan yet?” She growled, blue eyes filled with fire.

“Wha-,” He started when she lifted her small hand and pointed a finger at him.

“Do not you act like clueless with me you insufferable git! Why haven’t you told Joan how you feel about her? I’m supposed to a future aunt in place, why haven’t you told her you love her?”

“Emma…”

“No!” She screamed, slamming her fist onto the table which she immediately regretted. She cradled her hand to her chest and rubbed at the sore side with her other hand. “ _Ow_ …no. Don’t you tell me you’re ‘working on it’! You’ve been working on it for the past 6 months and haven’t said a word. I’ve seen you on the CCTVs and I’ve talked to Gregory. You practically drool over one another at every moment of the day!”

“I will tell her,” Sherlock whispered apprehensive, sounding like a reminder than an action. “I will express my feelings in my own time.”

“You’ll be dead by the time that happens!” Emma replied exasperated. “You can’t marry her when you’re dead, Sherlock.”

“If you care so much about it why you don’t tell her,” Sherlock shot back, annoyed. Why was it that whenever there was something here was interested in doing, this time would benefit them all by being with someone else, his blood relations got in the way?

“I will!” Emma agreed, puffing her little chest out. “I’m going to tell her that you are in love with her and then I’m going to tell her that she shouldn’t be in love with you.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Sherlock just looked at her. Emma sighed.

“Because you are a fool, Sherlock.” He opened his mouth to interrupt but she continued. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small balled up sheet of red paper, she unfurled it

“I wanted to get some tickets to this circus that is occurring tonight and I wanted Joan to come with me. I’ll be going away to school in the spring and I wanted to do something with her before I went.” She threw the tickets on the table and sighed deeply. “I guess they’ll go to waste…”

Then, her face brightened and she stared at her uncle, and he immediately became worried.

“What is it?” He asked.

“You...” She started. “You… you!”

“Yes,” He asked, annoyed. “What exactly do you want, Emma? If your primary goal was to annoy the hell out of me you are succeeding in it a bit too well.”

“You could take her!” Emma said excitedly, clapping her hands together. “ _Ohh_ , why couldn’t I have seen it before? Brilliant dear Emma, just brilliant. A job well done!”

Sherlock rolled her eyes and commenced to look back down at his computer.

“It’s a quite perfect scenario really. You ask Joan to go to the circus with you. She says yes,”

“Why would she say yes to something as childish as-”

“Because you’ll tell her it was my wish to go,” Emma shot back, annoyed at his interruption. “Joan nearly always agrees to go with me wherever I go because she frets about me. Anyway, she’ll say yes and then you’ll go. Don’t forget to hold her had when you go, makes it more romantic. You’ll take a cab and then you’ll get out early and then, as you’re walking back, you can admit your love for her!” She twirled herself around in a circle like the ballerina she was, the bottom of her dress whirling. “Oh it’s brilliant! Just absolutely wonderful! Oh, it’s Christmas!”

“I’m not doing it.” Sherlock replied sternly. Emma stopped spinning and looked back at him.

“Why not?” She asked.

“I do not need relationship advice from a 7 year old. I am a grown adult who can take care of things like telling a woman how I may or may not feel for her. It is juvenile and childish how you and your father are treating me like an idiot. You’re even wrapping Lestrade, as simple minded as he may be, into your nonsense.”

“Because I just might take it upon myself to find her someone that will fall irrevocably in love with her and she’d leave her here, alone, by yourself….forever. You care a lot about Joan and if you don’t admit it soon, I will.” She whirled on her heels and

“And besides,” She shot back, peeking through the door. “You finally got my age right.” She skipped down the stairs humming happily before Sherlock slammed his fist on the table and ripped his phone from his jacket pocket. He called ahead and reserved 2 tickets, then added an additional just in case, and silently hoped that whatever god or gods people were obsessing over nowadays would help things run just as smoothly as Emma hoped they would and help him find the courage to overcome this…obstacle.

And from the way things were going now, he and god were going to have to have a long talk.

“When you left me these tickets, I thought you had finally grown a heart to allow me to take a break from this mission bullshit Sherlock,” Joan said calmly, trying not to allow her anger to kill the consulting detective in front of an audience. It seemed that she could stay calm with him after all. “You could let me have just one night off?”

“A dragon circus in London for one day, It fits Joan.” Sherlock ignored. “They sent an assassin to England…”

“Dressed as a tightrope walker? C’mon Sherlock, behave!”

“We’re looking for a killer who can climb, shimmy up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity? Exit fees are scarce in china. They’d need a pretty good reason to get out of their country. Now all I need to do is get a quick look around the place…”

“Fine,” Joan interrupted. She started walking back down the staircase towards the front doors. “You do that and I’ll take Sarah for a quick drink before-”

“I need your help.” Sherlock interrupted stonily, as if she was being completely ridiculous about it.

“I do have a couple of other things on my mind tonight.”

“Like what?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “You fuckin’ with me, right?

“What’s so important?” He whispered harshly, now trying to keep his voice down as people walked past them.

“Sherlock I am right in the middle of what was supposed to be a nice evening out and you’re trying to take me off to chase some killer while I’m trying to…to…”

“What?” Sherlock was giving no fucks this evening and Joan was at the end of her rope. He wanted to know, fine. She’d tell him.

“While I’m trying to get lucky with Sarah!”

“Is everything alright?” Sarah asked then, appearing up from nowhere. The fakest smile plastered itself onto her face, Joan tried to play off the fact that she wanted to screw the idiot and Sherlock seriously wanted to punch the woman off the face of the Earth.

“Oh, _heeeeeyy_ ,” Joan greeted her, trying to play their conversation off. Sherlock stomped off up the stairs to contain the fact that he wanted to push them both down it and be done with this romance once and for all. “Ready to go?”

From there it was a brawl, heading back to the flat, Joan and Sarah getting kidnapped(to which, if  asked Sherlock was a least bit honest about, almost celebrated the fact that the latter was almost taken out of the picture, quite literally. He was happy when her tear stained face disappeared behind the glass of a taxi that sped her away into the night.) From that moment on, was all Joan erupting in anger and Sherlock wondering if he’d missed his chance altogether now.

“Joan, wait.” Sherlock called, steadily walking to keep up with her. Apparently when her limp returned, it slowed her down exponentially so he had no problem keeping a steady, if not leisurely, pace behind her. “Joan, Joan!”

“Don’t want to. Don’t talk to me.” Joan replied, determinedly making her way around the corner of another street. Joan was determined to walk this out, giving him the silent treatment. When the finally made it onto Baker Street, a few flats down from theirs, she stopped. He managed to stop a few feet behind her, just in case she wanted to punch him in the face. Again. Joan whirled around, looking very furious and very beautiful, then hobbled her back towards him. He stayed still, hands in his pockets, just to see what would happen.

“What is your problem?” She asked him, voice breaking up from the deep breaths she was taking. Seemingly when she whirled around and stomped back to him. “Why do you always do this? Huh? Why don’t you just tell me that you want me, Sherlock and I’ll tell you whether or not if I’m interested? How hard is that? All you had to do, all you _have_ to do is be straightforward with me, just like any other time. If you didn’t want me to go with Sarah tonight all you had to do was tell me and I…”

“Would you have listened to me?”  Sherlock asked, interrupting. If she wanted straightforward, she would get straightforward. It’s not like he didn’t give her the truth otherwise and he made sure to tell her that.

“I am always truthful to you and you rarely ever want to hear it from me, especially when it comes to your relationships. I tell you when one of your pathetic dates is pathetic, which, if you were at all honest about them, are all pathetic. I tell you and you cry and scream and huff about until I give you puppy eyes and play my violin for you and you don’t think twice about forgiving me. Then we start again, a circle that you, obviously, cannot get enough of to stop. So tell me, if I am really so selfish and mean and uncaring, if I truly didn’t care about you at all, would I do any of those things for you, Joan, at all? Or would I allow you to make the same idiotic and unnecessary mistakes you make, all the time?”

 _Hear this_ , Sherlock thought, staring deep into her eyes _. I have told you, do tell you every time, don’t I? Can’t you hear what I feel for you in my words? See them in my actions?_

“I,” Joan started, eyes searching his face. Her eyes widened and then she looked down. She took a couple of deep breaths before speaking again. “I…Emma. We need to go back to two-two-one and check on her.” She whirled back around and started limping again quickly towards the 221B, leaving Sherlock in a sort of confused daze.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to see everything he wanted to say in his eyes, hers were supposed to widen in understanding then she was supposed to tell speak of her undying love for him. That’s what was supposed to happen. That’s what those disgustingly sappy romance stories say is supposed to happen.

What the hell had he done wrong this time?

Snapping out of his questioning, she jogged up to Joan who had stopped in front of Speedy’s.

“Joan I…” Sherlock spoke up, coming up beside her. If she wasn’t going to get it, he might as well be blunt about it. “Joan, I want you to know that I…”

He would have finished but the look on her face stopped him. Joan was still, as if frozen solid. Her eyes in the streetlights were wide and her mouth was opened slightly, lower lip and breath coming out in trembles.

“Jay.”

A voice called to her and Sherlock turned his head, looking towards the front door. A dark figure stood there, making his ways into the light of street lights.

Joan stared hard at the figure, then squinted to make out his face. Apparently it wasn’t a face she wanted to see because her eyes widened and she froze, eyes wide in horror.

“It’s been a long time,” The voice continued. “How you been?”

“What are you doing here?” Joan’s voice was a barely a whisper. If he hadn’t been standing so close to here, he wouldn’t have been able to hear the words and the trace of fear that had edged into them. She backed up, and hit Sherlock’s chest. The move made him feel like she was trying to absorb herself into his chest cavity, far away from whomever it was in front of them. He brought up his hands to grasp both of her shoulders, moving her slightly to the side so she could hide behind him. Whoever this guy was, he was immediately not wanted and Sherlock wouldn’t have minded getting his hands dirty.

“If you pardon us, we are going to go in for the evening.” Sherlock interrupted.

“If you don’t mind, man,” The intruder replied, shooting Sherlock an annoyed look. “I was just planning on having a word with Joan here. It won’t take a minute, you can go ahead with-”

“No,” Sherlock replied, reaching down and taking Joan’s hand. She sucked in a breath of surprise and quickly followed closely behind him as he led her to the front door, gripping his hand tightly. He had already pulled out the key to the front door so he easily slid it in and unlocked the door, maneuvering Joan around him and through it.

“If you wish to speak to me,” He made an emphasis on the ‘me’. “You can discuss your issue during normal consulting hours. Evening.”

He quickly walked through the door and closed it, not giving the welcome stranger a word in disagreement. Sherlock locked the door and peeped though the keyhole, seeing if the man would try to force his way in. The sidewalk looked blessedly empty. He turned around and looked up the stairs towards the flat, watching Joan’s back as she took a snail’s pace up them.

“Joan.”

In a daze, Joan didn’t seem to hear him. He called her name twice more when she seemed to snap out of it, jumped like someone startled her. Joan slowly turned around and looked at him, tears glistening in her eyes.

They locked eyes then, and Sherlock felt he should say something profound and maybe a bit silly, maybe to make her feel better (?) he wasn’t that devoid of feeling, he mentally schooled himself, and he was perfectly able to…

“I’m…” Joan started suddenly, clasping her hands together. She sniffed and wrung her hands. “I’m really tired Sherlock.”

_No…_

“So I’m going to bed…”

_I’m going to tell you…._

“I’ll check on, um…Emma, yeah Emma, when I go up.”

_Please, wait. I just need a little more time…._

“I’m…” She looked up the stairs and glanced back at him. “Goodnight.” She and rushed up the stairs to the flat. She had made it halfway up the stairs to her room when he called her name again.

“Joan.” Joan looked down at him as he gradually made his way up the short distance to her.

“Whatever it is,” He said kindhearted, voice as soft as he could keep it in heat of this moment, when all he wanted to do was take her and cuddle her somewhere in an abandoned part of the world. He raised his hands and gently held the sides of her face in them. “Whatever you need to talk about, I am here. I will always be here...and I will protect you.”

_I don’t deserve you, but please, give me a little more time._

Then, as if she read his thoughts, she leaned forward and gently kissed his cheek.

She left him standing there, body frozen in complete shock, and hurried up the rest of the stairs into her room. The door clicked softly shut and in a slight daze, he walked down the stairs and headed to his chair and picked up his violin to sit when he thought of something better. Walking back to the staircase, he made it halfway to the door before stopping and sat down, back against the banister. He played a small bit of Bach before doing a little Chopin. Then he ended by playing Brahms’ Lullaby, letting it be the one thing he could do to soothe the woman who deserved much more.

“Goodnight, Joan Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your ever lasting patience and support. This chapter is really hard cause I'm trying to stay in character and am in no way romantic.....like seriously, if I like you I'll give you a flower and a slice of pizza.  
> That I'll probably halfway eat cause I got hungry on my way to you....
> 
>  I'm insane.
> 
> Romance.


	13. Joan's Plan or How to catch a Consulting Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan hits a realization, someone from her pasts reenters and Joan attempts to seduce Sherlock.
> 
>  
> 
> One of these is more important than the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER IS LONG AS HELL AND I HATE MYSELF FOR IT.
> 
> *runs and cries in a corner*
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>  
> 
> Please keep in mind there are lots of language in this chapter and an abbreviated version of the n-word is in here too, for all my Caucasian readers and fellow black readers who don't like that....

_Sherlock Holmes is in love with me._

This bombshell hit Joan as soon as she closed the door behind her and walked in a stupor to her bed. The sleeping form of Emma, snoring lightly, lay undisturbed on the bed while Joan recalled the instances that happened this night.

 _What did I miss?_ Joan asked herself mentally. _What…what is this? I mean, did he really…_

“No.” Joan whispered quietly aloud. She rose her hands to her mouth and placed the fingertips over her lips. “That can’t be. Sherlock Holmes and….me?”

 _I’m losing my mind!_ Joan laughed quietly to herself.

This was what she had secretly been pining for, isn’t it? Maybe her sister was finally right, Sherlock Holmes had the hots for the sista’ in the room above him.

Speaking of her sister, he blood suddenly ran cold. What the hell was Victor Trevor doing all the way in London? And how the hell did he find out she was there? She could have blamed her momma for this, if only the woman wasn’t in love with his dirty drawers.

Joan rose quickly from the bed and paced back and forth. What did he want and why was he here? It wasn’t like she was queen investigator at that unwelcomed moment.

She thought back to Sherlock and the way he handled the situation for her. He practically played the acted as a human shield for her, and she clung to him like a terrified child. Hell, she was terrified. She could feel the dull ache in her shoulder returning and she couldn’t even move to grab at it, but when he took her hand...

Joan looked down at it and opened and closed it; she could still feel the coolness of it, the strength hidden in those large hands and the tenderness in his well-manicured fingers. Didn’t she once think about how those hands would feel on a body? Exploring, touching….

“Nonononono,” Joan whispered a little louder than she realized, shaking her head wildly back and forth. “Oh my god…Oh my GOD!”

“What is this mental breakdown you’re having and why must it be so loud?” Emma’s weak voice broke through her breakdown, the proper word for it to be honest, and looked at the rising girl. She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, then blinked sleepily at Joan.

“What’s happened? Has your basic brain finally overheated?”

“I….I think,” Joan started off and the stopped. It was still a slightly difficult concept to wrap her brain around. Slightly because in the hazy shock of her mind, she knew Sherlock was human, wasn’t he? Of course he felt emotions for other people, even though he nearly always played them off and insulted anyone who made the correct guess about them. Emma stared at her and then threw her hands up.

“What?”

“Sherlock,” Joan pointed towards the door and the music behind the door continued. She then pointed top herself, “Me. He loves me… doesn’t he?’

“So he’s told you!” Emma exclaimed a little too suddenly. She broke out into a heavy coughing fit and reached over to grab the glass of water still sitting on the bedside table from earlier. She spoke again after gathering herself. “Oh, finally! I’m so relieved. You’ve accepted right?! When is the date? I’ll be a bridesmaid, won’t I?”

“Slow down,” Joan whispered, holding a finger to her lips. They both stayed silent, Emma in question and Joan listening for Sherlock’s violin. The music still played so she gave a sigh of relief. She quickly back to the bed and sat down next to Emma, grasping her small hands in her own. This was a big leap but the fact her heart was beating so hard it threatened to come out of her chest had to mean it was meant to be. It had to.

“Emma,” Joan said, voice serious but face hopeful. “You are so much smarter and wiser than little old me and I have just come to a very important realization has been about a year in the making. I am in love with your uncle and I have no idea what to do with this.” She let go of her hands and motioned to herself. “I’m pretty sure I have terrified him into never telling me how he feels about me since he has pretty much screwed over any possibility of having a friend let alone another date her in London for the rest of my life. And you know what,” She smiled wider and Emma’s eyes widened. “Now that I that I think about it: I am perfectly fine with it. Like, HAHA! I am okay with my world being slightly taken over by Sherlock Holmes and so, dear sweet cunning and clever Emma, you must help me get him to say the same.”

Emma sat in absolute shock, mouth slightly open. Joan’s eyes widened as well and she was pretty sure the girl was having a heart attack.

‘Emma,” Joan started, now worried. “Are you-“

“Are you serious?” Emma asked finally, voice quiet. “You meant it. You really want to be with Sherlock.”

“Well,” Joan shrugged. When push came to shove, and she really thought about it. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I do.”

Emma erupted in a happy yelp and jumped into Joan’s arms, wrapping her long arms around her neck. Joan laughed and hugged her back.

“This is fantastic news!” Emma laughed, pulling back. If Joan wasn’t kidding herself, she could have sworn there were tears in the young girl’s eyes. But, if she was at all like the two men she knew in her family, she wouldn’t appreciate someone as simple as Joan pointing it out to her, so she ignored it. “I’ve been trying to give him pointers on how to tell you but he won’t listen to me.”

“Really?” Joan asked, a bit giddy.

 Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson…official. The sense of clarity she was receiving was unbelievable. This…this is what she came to London for. This was a part of the big life change she needed.

Emma reached behind her and pulled her cell from under her pillow. Scrolling through it, she scooted herself close to Joan and showed her the history her a line of text messages between her and obviously, from the SH at the end of each of them, Sherlock.

“I have been trying to give him some pointers on how to tell you but he’s either screwed them up or hasn’t done anything at all!” Emma exclaimed slapping a hand onto Joan’s duvet. “Look for yourself.”

Joan took the phone from the girl and read the messages.

_What are you doing? -EEH2_

_What do you want? -SH_

_Why aren’t you telling Joan you love her? -EEH2_

_Why aren’t you taking that nap that you obviously need. -SH_

_Because I can’t stop thinking about how you’re letting your one true chance at happiness slip past your fingers! You know Joan had another date tonight? Do you know what he did to her? -EEH2_

_I’m not interested but I know you’re going to tell me anyway -SH_

_He all but raped her! Not only did he take her to some shady part of town, he attacked her and Joan had to kick him in the balls to get him off her. And then you know what else, she had to walk back because the coward wouldn’t even drive her back to Baker Street. She was lucky I was watching and sent a car for her or she wouldn’t have gotten back to you as safely as she did -EEH2_

_It’s her own fault, she has terrible taste in men. -SH_

_And so why haven’t you stepped up to the plate? Are you lumping yourself in the same category as those men? -EEH2_

_Of course not. Why would I do that? -SH_

_Because the longer you sit on your hands the more likely she is going to get tired of being here with you and go back to America. And then I’ll really lose my chance for an aunt once and for all -EEH2_

_It’s only your happiness I’m thinking of Sherlock -EEH2_

_Are you ignoring me? -EEH2_

_Don’t you ignore me! -EEH2_

_SHERLOCK!!!!! >:( -EEH2_

<><><><><<><><><><><><><> 

“See!” Emma interrupted. “He’s absolutely impossible. I don’t see how you can take anything from him, the git.”

Joan kept reading.

<><><><><<><><>><><><><> 

_Joan looks really cute today -EEH2_

_Yes, I know -SH_

_You should tell her -EEH2_

_Why should I? -SH_

_Girls like it when you compliment them. I know because I am a girl and you should take my word for it.  -EEH2_

_Not interested -SH_

_I went to the clinic and had lunch with Joan yesterday and she told me that above everything that you do to her, she likes it when you don’t say something that makes her want to smother you in your sleep.  -EEH2_

_How very kind of her. -SH_

_Try it -EEH2_

_And if it doesn’t work? -SH_

_If one doesn’t first succeed… -EEH2_

_It didn’t work   -SH_

_What do you mean it didn’t work?! All you had to say was ‘Joan I think you look really nice in that shirt today.’ How hard is that? -EEH2_

_…was I supposed to say it that way? -SH_

_Well in simple terms, yeah. Oh god…what did you say?  -EEH2_

_I told her that the shirt she was wearing made her left breast look the same size as her right even though it is smaller and that she should be thankful for the fact that I noticed or when she went out or Jeanette would have happily pointed it out for her. -SH_

_She threw her glass of lemonade in my face and stomped upstairs to change her shirt. -SH_

_My eyes are slightly burning -SH_

_So you’re ignoring me now -SH_

_How childish of you and I am not playing your game anymore -SH_

_Sorry, Sorry :D I had to stop laughing long enough to reply. I can’t believe you did that! Did you try again? -EEH2_

_I went to go tell her what you said and she just looked at me and attempted to push me down the stairs. I think I might have to try again later. -SH_

_Don’t bother! She might actually kill you at this point. Try playing your violin to make her feel better. -EEH2_

<><><><><<><><>><><><><> 

“So you’re the reason why he did that!” Joan exclaimed with fake disdain, lightly patting the girl on the back. “I could have sworn he was just in a mood.”

Emma smiled shyly and shrugged. “I didn’t realize he’d be so scared that he’d screw it up as majestically as he did. Did he at least play his violin for you to apologize?”

Joan sighed heavily. “Yeah, he did. I went upstairs and called off work, I was so upset. After a while I came down, I think it was to go out actually, and he was playing something really pretty and I sat down and before I knew it, it was twilight. The rest of the day had passed and I wasn’t as upset anymore.” Joan looked over at Emma who had leaned closer and was listening intently to this strange love story. “He actually, when he was done, he turned around and told me that I looked rather attractive in the shirt and that I should wear it more often. Weren’t you the one who insisted I buy it?”

“Well, yeah!” Emma agreed, rolling her eyes. “It makes your breasts look so good! When you came out of the fitting room every guy there stopped and stared at you.”

“Jesus,” Joan laughed, heart rising in her cheeks. If Sherlock had been there, would he have looked at her the same as well? He probably would, but would immediately cover it up with some bullshit about chemical reactions inside the body and mind. Idiot.

She looked down and scrolled some more through the phone before coming to another set of texts.<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

_Joan just got into a fight with Donovan and it was the most wonderful thing I have ever personally witnessed -SH_

_WHAAAAATTTT?!?!?!? Photos or it didn’t happen -EEH2_

_I was being bandaged up so I couldn’t. Lestrade will no doubt tell you about it though, he was there -SH_

_I’ll have to look at the cameras inside the office. Though this is something I don’t have to see to believe. How bad was it? -EEH2_

_Donovan is currently nursing a very bloody nose and is crying in a corner somewhere. Joan is sitting next to me in Lestrade’s office fuming, talking about how she hopes your father will allow her to beat the living out of her just once to make everyone happy -SH_

_I am pretty sure you’ve fallen even more in love with her now -EEH2_

_I never thought I would say this but for once I do believe you are right -SH_

_For once? No, I’m always right -EEH2_

_No -SH_

_Yes, I am -EEH2_

_No, you’re not –SH_

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

“God. That was a day.”  Joan replied, shaking her head back and forth from the memory.

“What was?” Emma asked, looking down at the phone. “Oh yeah! I remember that one! I was able to pull the CCTV video from inside the building and my goodness was that hilarious!” She put both of her hands to her face, covering her nose. “‘OH, my nose! My nose!’ I thought I’d never get through laughing.”

That day, Sherlock had attempted to help her chase down a guy who had been kidnapping young girls. He would videotape them while he was raping them, then sending the videos to their parents in hopes of gathering ransom money to ensure the girls ‘safe return’. Of course, that hadn’t been the case. After raping them, he would slit their throats and throw them in the Thames, to the horror and heartbreak of their parents. Of course Sherlock did his thing:

  * Look for all the clues

  * terrorize Scotland Yard

  * make a parent or two cry

  * and then find the killer




All the while Joan did what she always did:

  * compliment Sherlock on his genius

  * reprimand Sherlock for getting on everybody’s nerves

  * comfort said crying parents (and reprimand Sherlock some more)

  * And lastly, do the heavy work of taking down the bad guy when they attempted to hurt Sherlock or run off, which when the latter happened.




They had chased the suspect onto a bridge, Blackfriars Bridge she later found out it was called, and he ran like a bat out of hell trying to escape them. Of course, a history of running from bullets and running after people at home and in the war had given her the track record she needed to keep up with him. Sherlock was born with blessedly long legs so he pretty much was Jim Thorpe until he lost his footing and took a nasty fall on the ground.

“Keep going!” Sherlock had yelled when she tried to go back for him. “Get him!”

Pissed, she ran as hard and fast as possible until she caught up with the man, who was slowing down due to his own exhaustion. Joan grabbed him by the neck and they both slid to a stop near the edge of the bridge where it hovered over the land of the south bank. Joan had meant to turn him around and slam him on the ground, holding him until help arrived but as she did, _WHAM_ , Sherlock’s long body sudden slammed into her back causing the trio to fall over the bridge, into the water. They all hit the water hard, but luckily for Joan, she had learned how to swim a few years before, and could manage in the waters, carrying the now unconscious criminal out. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and after a moment of complete panic on her part he drug himself from the waters, and collapsed on the bank. Too tired and overwhelmed with relief, she collapsed next to him, as the officers from Scotland Yard ran and gathered down around them.

Of course, the criminal turned out to be fine, Sherlock got chewed out by Lestrade and Joan, after she recovered a bit, and of course, other Scotland Yard’s put in their two cents. And by others, she meant Donovan.

“Perhaps since the amateurs are finished the professionals can have a go at it.” Donovan said cockily, after they returned to the Yard. Joan stood by Sherlock, drying her hair with an

Joan had really tried to ignore the woman, really she did. But the great mood of that day was going down the drain faster than she could hold on to it. She shot Donovan a dirty look to quiet her but Donovan took that as permission to carry on.

“Well, I said it in the beginning, didn’t I, “She smirked, voice too smug. “Solving crimes just wouldn’t be enough. One day he’ll just cross the line.”

Joan rolled her eyes and crossed her arms across her chest. She looked at the thin woman and wondered how easy it would be to break her neck in half.

“What is your purpose even?” Joan asked, moving aside to allow the paramedic to do his job. Donovan turned and looked down her upturned nose at her. “What are you even talking about?”

“I bet they’re in league with one another,” Donovan continued, walking to stand next to Lestrade, like he was supposed to agree with her…or protect her. The Detective Inspector, wise man he was, inched a few steps away from her. “I bet he had he kidnap those girls so he could come and be the big hero.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Joan scoffed in return, looking the woman up and down. “You sound like a fool.”

“I sound like I’m right.”

“You sound like an ignorant ass moron just like yo’ damn boyfriend Anderson over there.” Joan nodded to the left where Anderson, out of earshot, attempted to flirt with a woman by the elevators.

“Take it easy, ladies,” Lestrade warned, scooting closer to Sherlock who, along with the man patching him up, looked on in silent awe. If the two of them had bags of popcorn it would have been a perfect match that rivaled Mayweather and Pacquiao, Joan obviously the winning first man.

“That,” Donovan stuttered, taken aback from the bluntness Joan used to rat out her affair with the nasally wanna’-be Casanova. “That has nothing to do with anything. You and your boyfriend nearly cost the life of another girl! You-”

“And where the hell were you?!” Joan shot back to her, placing her hands on her hips. “I didn’t see yo’ useless ass out there doing anything besides kissing ass and crying behind Lestrade. If you were doing your job correctly, Sherlock and I wouldn’t have to show your incompetent ass up every damn time we come ‘round here.”

“Oh please,” Donovan scoffed and Joan’s eyes widened a bit. The nerve of this bitch! “The freak has to have a babysitter! And besides, if he was so amazing and whatever, would he have sent you all plowing into the Thames? The suspect can’t even swim! So not only would he have killed him, we would have also stopped the one chance we would have had to find and save those girls. All thanks to the freak and your assistance.”

"Donovan," The DI warned, stepping forwards. The anger in Joan was at a slow simmer and was edging towards the top. Was she really insinuating that...? "We've been through this before. That's enou-"

“You know what else needs assistance? Your hairline.”  Joan shot back Donovan’s hand shot up to her forehead and both Sherlock and Lestrade tried to hide their snorts of laughter. “Handle yourself before you try and talk about someone else.” She then turned to stomp back to Sherlock and take him home and then, as if fate came to see a battle today and wouldn’t go home without the least bit of bloodshed, Donovan commented back.

‘"Well I suppose we should be grateful for that then," Donovan replied. "After all, the world needs another loser hero duo like Batman and his useless partner robin. Unbelievable how you found out all that you did just from a footprint. Still probably had something to do with it..."  


"The day I need you to tell me how to do what I need to will be leaving this goddamn shit storm with a bullet in my brain." Joan yelled, looking up into Donovan's face. If any closer, she probably would have bitten the woman's face clean off, a la Mike Tyson. Instead Joan stomped off to Sherlock who stared at her with an unreadable look on his face.  


“And maybe you should.” And before she could stop it, every memory of being back at home came flashing before her eyes and her fist came crashing into Donovan’s face with the quickness. Donovan screamed and stumbled back, clutching her nose and Sherlock, with the manly strength of Lestrade assisting him, held her back while she tried to lift her foot to kick the bitch’s womb out through her spine. The lazy officers of NSY swarmed around them, some cackling about the way the blood flowed freely from the woman’s cupped hands, some going to assist her and others standing and staring at Joan, too in shock to do anything.

“Let me go,” Joan said calmly, the fury giving the two men a hard time keeping her back. She took a step and wrenched an arm out from someone’s grasp and the held it back again, pulling her into Lestrade’s office. “Let. Me. Go.”

“I’ll be right back,” Lestrade huffed, after wrestling Joan into his chair. He rushed to the door and opened it. “Sherlock, make sure she stays in here. I can’t have her beating down everyone here. And Joan….”

Joan calmly looked up at him, her face with a mask of indifference. He held his hand out, palm facing down.

“Please. Please just… stay calm.”

“I am calm,” Joan replied, not even a whisper of attitude in her voice. “I am absolutely calm. Don’t I look calm? I’m fine. Absolutely fine.”

“You look as calm a volcano before eruption.” A loud yell came from the outside and Lestrade turned to face it then turned back.

“I’ll be back soon.” He gave as a last work and then rushed out, slamming the door behind him. The silence that followed inside was nearly deafening, except for the distant yells and laughter of different officers on the outside. Joan sat stiffly, her hands gripping tightly to her wet knees. The fact that they were still in their soaked clothing meant very little to her, she could have sworn her anger was heating her up so well that they would burst into flames and disintegrate like in an old cartoon.

"How dare she accuse you like that?" Joan finally spat, fingers clutching her pant legs. " _Ooohh_ , I just want to upper cut her at least once, then I'll feel better. Put her out of my damn misery." Joan looked up at Sherlock. “Do you think I could talk Mycroft into letting Lestrade let me go at her at least once? I promise I'll make sure not to damage any vital organs." Sherlock stayed quiet, sitting in the chair next to her unmoving, gripping his knees the same way she had shortly before. She took a glance at him and saw that he was biting on his lower lip, body quivering.

“Sherlock,” She asked wary, turning more to face him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, turning him towards her.

As soon as their eyes met, Sherlock let loose. He howled with laughter, clutching his stomach in sheer joy.

“I-I can’t believe you did that!” He gasped in-between laughs. “Y-You hit her…and her nose…I’m…I’m…I can’t _breeaath_.”

Joan leaned back in shock. She thought the man was having a breakdown and all he was doing was holding in…laughter.

“Th-this is nothing to be laughing about!” Joan admonished, crossing her arms over her damp chest.

“Of course it is!” Sherlock gasped, wiping tears, actual _tears_ , from his eyes. “Oh her face, _her face_.”

Joan pressed her lips together, hiding the smile that threatened to appear on her face too.

“It’s not a laughing matter,” She scoffed, turning her head away. “You should really worry the things they say about you. It could make you look bad in Lestrade’s eyes here.

“I do not worry about Sally Donovan and the things she has to say to me. None of them to be exact.” Sherlock responded, sitting back in his chair. He looked over at her frowning face. “But I do appreciate the sentiment of you taking up for me.”

Joan could have sworn she saw something in his eyes when he said it but, at the time, disregarded it. She thought it was still the fact that she punched Donovan in the face.

“She deserved it.”

“Yes she did.” Sherlock agreed, nodding.

“I wish I could do it again.” She scoffed and looked down, hoping the heat she felt in her face didn’t show on her face.

“Surprisingly,” Sherlock started. Joan looked up at him, an amused smile beaming on his face. “As do I.”

The towel she was using she tugged from her shoulders and hit him on the arm with as hard as she could. He laughed again, trying to dodge the blows.

“That was a time,” Joan said aloud after reliving the moment. After that Donovan had avoided her like the plague and every sarcastic commented she had wanted to say to Sherlock seemed to dissipate after she saw the woman. During this time Lestrade worried, Sherlock laughed every time he saw here and Joan shot her evil looks every time she was in eyesight. It was a tale. “She still runs when she sees me. And your uncle thinks it’s hilarious to this day.”

“I think it’s hilarious.” Emma agreed, giggling again.

“Of course you do.” Joan nudged her shoulder. Emma nudged back and giggled. “But the question still is what you’re going to do about Sherlock. It’s not like he’s going to go all out and tell you.”

“Well, I kinda’ have figured that honesty is the best key. There’s nothing I can do now but be upfront and honest about this, or it’ll never happen.” Joan resolved then. “I’ll figure out something to do.”

Emma nodded her agreement and they sat in the quiet. Joan realized, in that moment Sherlock had stopped playing and without it, she felt a little lonelier than she had before.

"But aren't you afraid?" Emma asked after a silence.

"Afraid of what?" Joan asked in return. Emma looked down at the comforter and picked at a loose string, shrugging.

"Oh... You know. That people will say something about you and Sherlock."

"Don't they do that anyway?" Joan laughed.

"Yeah, but," Emma stopped talking and in the night light, Joan could she her blushing. "Aren't you afraid of... racists? I've done so reading in the past about American slavery and racism in common society. Aren't you afraid of… someone saying something that'll hurt you? What if they say something like that?"

"Let me tell you a story." Joan said, scooting beside her farther into the bed. Emma scooted over to give her more room and Joan sat back, back against the headboard. Bringing her legs to her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and looked down at the girl beside her.

"When I was a freshman in high school, I wasn't a person who was really into dating or anything like that. I was more interested in hanging out at home and working than going out on Friday nights and going to the mall with the girls. Heck, I'm still pretty much the same now." She laughed dryly.

"Why didn't you?" Emma asked curious.

Joan sighed heavily. Because things were starting to get a little bit different than they were when I was younger in the ghetto. The neighborhoods became more and more dangerous, terrorized by gangs and things like that. So many teenagers my age then and children your age were being killed by gang violence. Better to stay at home, inside safe, than being out there where playing with your friends in your front yard could get you killed."

Emma gasped. "That's horrible!"

"Yes, it is. And sometimes, even that isn't enough. You could e sitting inside your house, on the couch watching Saturday morning cartoons and have a bullet go through your brain. There are so many people I once knew that are gone now, forever 8, 9, 14, 15 years old. And that's not all. Even the police could bust in your house looking for people dealing drugs and the like, with and without warrants. You especially had to watch out for trigger happy ones. They could kill you in your own home, citing resisting arrest or some type of lie, covering the fact that they murdered someone by doing something as stupid as just getting the apartment number wrong. Many innocent people were killed by police too and because of that, you really didn't feel safe anywhere. So I did what I believed what was best, I avoided it. I stayed at home, in my bedroom, and had very few friends, including a Caucasian girl, the same blond haired type like yourself. I kept to myself and became something like a loner. I just wanted to get through it so I could graduate and go to a college that was far, far away. So it was a surprised that I was asked out by a guy in my school. His name was Darnell and he was really cute and funny and I thought, for a moment, that I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. I've never been the person to ask for much, I just ask of respect and above all else, honesty. I told him when we started, 'If you don't want me anymore just say so. Don't lead me on like we’re a good thing and you not actually interested. It only hurts me and makes me want to hurt you.' Well, obviously he agreed. 'I hate white girls and yadda, yadda! They are the weakness of the black man and they are doing this, and that! I swear I would never as long as I live!' Thinking about it, I should have dumped him then." She sighed heavily, thinking on the memory. "I went by his place one weekend because we were supposed to go see a movie. I had a key he gave me to let myself in and I went down the hall to his room to let him know I was there, something I always did..."

She sighed, tears stinging her eyes. She could still see her bouncing on his dick, they both moaning and the look on their faces when they saw her there. Stupid, stupid Joan.

"He was in there with another girl, my Caucasian girl friend to be exact. The same type of girl he swore up and down he would never want anything to do with and talked the most mess about. But I think the thing that hurt me the most was the fact that he left me for a good friend of mine, someone who I once considered my best friend. Y'know, so many black people talk big talk about being pro- black and being faithful to the black man only and all that garbage, but the first thing some of them do is drop you off and jump off with someone paler than you because you refuse to bow down and allow them to step all over you, or worse, just because they feel like it. I was with Darnell for 4 years, all of high school. Faithful to the max and the entire time they were behind my back, like I was an obstacle in the way of _their_ romance. And he was the one who asked _ME_ out! But don't get me wrong, there are plenty of healthy black relationships out there that are thriving and are wonderful. My thing is, my personal experiences should be allowed to dictate my decisions and future relationships, not my skin color. I tried a black man and he broke my heart. Should I have to constantly stick with the same if the same isn’t what I’m happy with? I have lived too long allowing people, no matter the shade, to rule my heart for me. If I find someone who can and does love me as passionately as I love him, then what does skin color matter? People are gonna' talk but It's like your uncle says, 'people do little else.' Besides, it takes all the work out of going out to find a man when one wrapped up pretty and waiting for me already, don't cha' think?" Joan winked at the end.

"Yeah." Emma smiled. "Besides, if anyone says anything negative about it, you are allowed to tell me and I will ship them to Antarctica."

"Antarctica?!" Joan laughed. "Why Antarctica?"

"If you’re going to be cold hearted, you can live in a place of the same temperature. I'll even make sure they don't have coats and get eaten by polar bears." She leaned against her and sighed, nuzzling her face against Joan's arm. "I promise I won't let Sherlock or anyone else hurt you, Joan. I have grown fond of you. I think you're the only person besides father, Gregory and Sherlock who I feel happy around, even though you're not very smart." Joan snorted a laugh, the girl was a Holmes through and through, dishing out insults as easy as compliments.

"Really? I'm so honored." Joan replied, smiling.

"Yeah," Emma yawned. "It's something I can overlook for the time being."

"Thank you."

Emma sighed happily. "You're welcome."

The next thing they knew, they were waking up to a beautiful golden ray of sunshine shining through the window and Joan had made up her mind to tell him that morning.

‘I’ll do it today,” Joan had told Emma when they both woke up. She had made pancakes for the both of them, to Emma’s unbridled delight, and when they finished, a car from Mycroft came to pick her up. “I’m going to tell him as soon as I see him.”

“Why not tell him now,” Emma asked from the couch, putting on her shoes. Joan walked into the kitchen and put their dishes into the sink.

“I was,” Joan sighed heavily, looking behind her through the open kitchen door towards his bedroom. “But he wasn’t there. He’s probably at Bart’s.”

“Why don’t you text him?” The girl asked, standing by the fireplace now, in front of Sherlock’s chair.

“No! I don’t want to rush it.” Joan slid her hands down the pants she still was wearing from the day before. “Besides, I want to give myself a chance to calm down so I can do this properly.. And it’ll give me a chance to take a shower and change into something else.”

“Make sure you wear something cute.” Emma suggested happily, swinging her parasol. “Are you sure you don’t want to go shopping? I could help even though you have pretty decent taste. I’m fairly sure you’ll be able to pull together something fantastic and not screw up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Joan rolled her eyes. She walked into the sitting room and leaned down to give the girl a big hug. Emma relaxed into it and attempted to do the same with her skinny arms. “Go home and take care of yourself. You need more rest.”

“Yes mother,” Emma replied sarcastically, skipping towards the door. “I’ll be in contact later today to find out specifics. Do not try to lie to me or I will know.”

“Yes mother,” Joan replied as well, sticking her tongue out. Emma copied the motion and hurried down the stairs, giggling happily. The door opened and closed and Joan got started. She cleaned the two dishes in the sink and hurried upstairs to rummage through her drawers for some clothes. She didn’t want to overdo it, maybe something simple like jeans and a t-shirt that said I’m comfortable but maybe it also said nothing’s changed. Being in a relationship with anyone was a big change, and Joan figured being in a relationship with _The_ Sherlock Holmes could be considered a big deal that would be memorial. She went to put them down but then picked them up again.

 _What if it says that I don’t care too much about it, Joan panicked. I could wear jeans but what if I wore a skirt instead. I have a pretty nice black short skirt I found on sale recently but…what if it’s too short. Maybe it would say I’m trying too hard._ Am _I trying too hard? How about I leave the shirt…oh, it’s just a regular black shirt. This could work. But would I look too Goth in it? What if it does nothing for me? Maybe…_

“I have no idea what I’m doing.” Joan finally resigned herself. She sighed heavily and looked down at the blue jeans in her hand. “Maybe I should have gotten Emma’s help.”

She laughed. _Well, it wouldn’t hurt._

She took the items downstairs, grabbing her towel on the way, and took a long hot shower. Afterwards, after lotioning and dressing, she wondered why things had started falling from her hands. The lotion bottle, her bra, everything seemed to slip from her fingers. Her nerves were shot, she realized. All the panics and fears that she hoped flowed down the drain reemerged, giving second thoughts. She stepped dazed down the stairs to the sitting room.

_I haven’t seen it for so long, what if he’s not interested anymore? What if he doesn’t want me as much as he thought he did? What if it’s just a small case of Jungle Fever?!_

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone walking up the stairs.

_He’s here!_

Joan rushed to the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair, happy she thought to straighten it the other night before her disastrous date with Sarah, who she had to call later to apologize again to. She sighed and closed her eyes, relaxing herself. The steps got closer and she gave a quick metal pep talk to herself.

 _Stay calm, be honest, no fear, no fear_ …

She turned around hoping to see Sherlock and nearly passed out. Victor Trevor hadn’t changed a bit and was just as black and evil looking as she remembered. Well, that wasn’t the complete truth. The previously fat man was now much slimmer than what he was before, dressed to the nine’s in a fitted dark grey suit with a black tie. His previously dreadlocked hair was completely shaved off and he had a nice fade in it’s place. She could have sworn he was heading to a job interview, or worse, in charge of his own fortune 500 company if she didn’t know better. Thank god she did.

“Well shit,” He asked, looking around. “Didn’t realized you would move from one hood to another. This reminds me of ya’ moms house. Everything’s all messy and half-assed put away. Still the same…”

Joan stood with her back to the mantle, frozen. He walked farther in without permission looking around some more until his eyes landed on her.

‘Well, not everything’s the same.” His eyes were cloudy with the most disgusting look of lust that Joan wanted to take another shower and set herself on fire.

“That’s true.” She choked out, finding her voice again. “Though I wished they would have stayed the same.” _Like you being 25000 miles away from me._

“Nah,” He retorted, walking towards her. He licked his lips. “You look good Joan. Why don’t chu’ come ‘mere and give me a hug.” He held his hands out and Joan rushed away standing beside her chair.

"Have a seat." Joan replied stonily, pointing to the wooden chair by the desk. He looked around one last time and then plopped his narrow ass down into Sherlock’s chair.

"Oh, my bad." He replied, false alarm in his voice. He pointed down to the chair. "Did you not want me to sit here? Did you want me to sit in that one instead?" He pointed to Joan's.

"No," she replied, voice hard and solemn. She turned and walked into the kitchen. She went to stand by the stove and wondered, since she hadn’t had the need to use her pocket one, if she was still capable at welding a knife like she could before. Opening the draw to find one, all that was in there were 2 spoons and a fork with missing prongs. _Dammnit Sherlock_! "Would you like some tea?"

"Still ever the housewife, eh? You still drinking that stuff?"

She stayed quiet, and filled a tea pot with water. She placed it on the stove and stood there, not even with the energy to turn it on.

“I went by your mom’s place a while back,” He called into the kitchen, staring hard at her. She tried to ignore the goosebumps that crawled all over her skin. “She told me you had moved away a few years ago here. Of course I was curious as to why but it seems like I know now. You got ya’self a _boy_ friend.” She stayed quiet and unmoving, secretly praying that this was a day Lestrade or Mycroft or even Emma would come in and..

"Oh come on. Be honest, you're just a tiny bit happy that I'm here."

"Why would you assume that?" Her voice was stronger than before, thank god.

He shrugged. "A familiar face in a strange place, I think."

"A familiar face?" Joan sneered. "You being back on the streets? I would never celebrate that."

"Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain, don't cha' think?"

She walked away slowly, leaving the teapot and the kitchen, and sat down in her chair.

"Fairytale? You sound as if you're key to my happiness."

"I am."

"No. You're not." He chuckled darkly.

"Oh but I am, Jay. ‘Cause you see, I’ve been doing some research while I was away,” Joan’s eyebrows furrowed together. “I’ve met a couple of nigga’s who know other nigga’s…who know a couple of white people. From them, I know where you've been and what you've done, good shit and bad. They told me what you was doin’ in Afghanistan, in Iran. I even know who was workin’ _for_. Shit you wouldn't want your white boy and the rest of your fancy white friends to find out all your dirty little secrets, do you?" Joan's lip twitched involuntarily before she could stop it. He smirked at the motion.

"You think you have something over me, don't you?" She replied stiffly.

"Course I do. Me and you are alike."

"How so?" Joan asked, trying not to grit her teeth. Her hands stayed surprisingly loose around her cup and tea plate, she could have sworn she was holding both tight enough to break. He shrugged.

"You always tryin' to protect somebody. Help them out and get shit in return. The same as me. Well, now that I think about it, I guess we are slightly different. You're on the side of the... Angels."

She rolled her eyes and looked hard at her lap. She looked up again at his smirking face. "What do you want?"

"You."

Joan immediately scoffed.

"Please. Don't talk to me like I'm going to fall into your arms all of a sudden because you’re threatening me."

"I know you won't. That’s some shit yo’ sista’ would do,” He leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. “And that's _exactly_ what I've always _luuuved_ about chu'. You so damn independent, I've never fucked with a bitch like you befo'. That's why I have this leverage, Joan. I own secrecy, Joan. Especially yours."

"You know my secrets, so you think that that's going to get me to want your disgusting ass?"

"Hell yeah. But instead of watching you fly high with the rest of _them_ ," he spat the last word out.

"I want to see you fall. Someone once told me that falling is like flying, ya'know, except there's a more permanent destination." He got up and took the few steps towards her and she suddenly regretted the decision of sitting someplace so low. She immediately rose and stepped to the side, giving herself the space of rest of the room behind them. Turning, she walked to the door and pointed to it.

"I may be on the side of the Angels but do not think for one second I am one.” He smiled and sauntered towards her, standing in front. “If you step to me again, or anyone else I know for that matter, and I find out, I will kill you."

"What if I kill you first?” He stepped close enough for her to smell the slightly overpowering cologne he wore. She fought the urge to gag. He bent down slightly to get in her face, his dark evil eyes bearing holes into hers. "What if I skipped all that bullshit and had ya’ white boy killed? Or better, I killed yo’ fine ass right now?"

"Then you’d betta’ pray you do a better job of it than you did last time. I've learned from my mistakes," she squinted hard at him. "I do not plan on making the same one again."

 He regarded her for a minute more, eyes drinking in her face and especially her breasts, and all of the air in the room seemed to be sucked into his darker than night flesh. She fought the urge to look away first. She won. He leaned away, and pulled on his suit jacket, straightening. "I'll be seeing you, Joan.”

He walked down the stairs and Joan let out a big breath she didn’t know she was holding. Later on, if she really thought about it, her shoulder nor her leg hurt once.

Then of course the uninvited guest she had earlier ruined the mood for her for the rest of the day and the rest of the season really. Sherlock finally came back late that afternoon from a successful experimenting whatever from Bart’s and Joan couldn’t even bare to look at him. He stared at her for a long time though when she gave him a cup of tea and didn’t say a word to him at all the rest of the evening.

They went on a few more cases before the weather turned into a bitter bitch slapping cold that announced winter was riding up close and before she knew it, Christmas was a week away.

And she hadn’t said a word. Of course, when it finally dawned upon her late one night as she finally got to bed one night, she slapped her forehead in annoyance. Shit!

She threw herself backwards, head landing with a hard _flumf_ onto her pillow. _What the hell am I going to do? It’s never going to happen at this point. I need a damn mira-_

Interrupting her thoughts, her phone shrilled next to her ear, nearly giving her a heart attack.

“Who the hell is this?” She asked aloud, squinting at the bright screen. Unknown Number flashed across the screen but she could think of who it could be.

“Mycroft?” Joan wondered aloud and attentively answered it. “Hello?”

“Joan!” Emma screamed into her ear, causing her to pull it away. Of course.

“Yes Emma.” For a moment she could have sworn she was talking to her momma…

“What in the bloody hell are you doing?!” She screamed. “You had one job, one job, and you can’t even do that right!” “Things have gotten away from me for a bit Emma.” Joan replied. Which, in truth they honestly had. She had been so out of it that everything had seemed to turn topsy turvy on her. It was even reflecting how she and Sherlock interacted, which, in the latest case, had erupted in the both of them getting into a big argument. Sherlock was currently downstairs sulking and ignoring her.

“It’s been….difficult.”

“Yeah right!” Emma scoffed. “You’ve been having second thoughts! I saw that black man you were with, I know what you’re thinking!” Joan nearly dropped the cell. How did she know?! “You think that guy can give you what Sherlock can?! Of course he can’t! I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him, and I’m not even interested in being in the same room as him!”

“Emma, that’s not it. I-”

“You went into this big speech about how color means nothing and all that mess and you won’t even take a chance yourself!”

“It’s not like that!” Joan yelled before catching herself. She stayed quiet and listened for a noise downstairs.

“It’s not like that Emma,” Joan repeated, quieter. “It’s just…. Sigh. I changed my mind to do it for Christmas.” She sighed heavily, hoping the smart girl believed her. ‘It would be nice to have a relationship for Christmas, don’t you think?”

Emma herself was quiet on the other end.

“Just because I’m a kid doesn’t mean you can lie to me.” Emma finally responded, voice wet. “But I suppose a boyfriend for Christmas isn’t such a bad excuse.”

“But I am happy you called.”

“Emma sniffed. “Why?”

“Well, if I’m going to get a boyfriend for Christmas, I might as well look like I’m going to, right?” Emma didn’t respond, so she continued. “So how about you help me go dress shopping tomorrow for my big day?”

Emma was quiet again and Joan thought the girl had passed out until she said, “Be ready to go by 10AM and no later. We have work to do.” And then, she hung up. _Perfect_.

Before she knew it the big day arrived and Joan was more than ready to go into action. She pulled her new dress and looked herself in the mirror. Emma had wanted her to go in a pretty emerald green one that she had found but she found it too festive. Emma bought it anyway and had the sales clerk put it in the dress bag along with the one she was wearing. Sliding on her shoes, she took a deep breath, opened it and stood at the top of the stairs. Emma and Mycroft had arrived while she was upstairs changing, and Lestrade arrived a few minutes before. Mrs. Hudson had wanted to be there but her sister’s husband had dies after a few weeks before so she had gone to the country to spend the holiday with her. Taking the stairs one at a time, she finally sauntered into the room and the guests couldn’t believe it. The black dress she wore hugged every curve she had. The deep V neck in the front threatened to go lower than her cleavage but stayed put, it’s long sleeves covering her arms making the girls’ in front the main focal point. If anyone noticed the cut up the side that showed off her new black wedges, the smoothness of her left calve, and hinted at the thick firmness of her thighs, it would have been welcome attention. She had made sure to make time before everyone showed up to do her hair and the soft waves that surrounded her face were 2 hours in the making. Everyone’s eyes were on her…except Sherlock. 

Joan walked over to him, looking at something, for once, on his laptop.

“I hope I’m not interrupting you,” Joan whispered loudly, getting as close to his ear as she dared. Sherlock sighed and waved a hand in her face.

“You’ve finally made it, I smell.” He replied taking a deep sniff. “Went a little overboard with the White Diamonds, don’t you think?”

“Well, maybe there was someone I was trying to impress,” She replied. If she noticed that the guests in the background stopped talking she wouldn’t have continued. “You look nice.”

He looked up at her and blinked. “Ohh, dear lord.”

 Joan backed away a little and did a whimsical turn. “Do you like my dress?”

“I helped her pick it out,” Emma called in the background, pouring eggnog into her father’s mug. “Isn’t she scrumptious in it?”

“Yes merry and fine,” He pointed back to the laptop. “The counter on your blog still says 1,895. It’s still stuck.”

“Oh no,” His brother in the background sighed loudly. “It looks like we all must cancel Christmas. Dear Joan, you’ll have to take make that wonderful dress.”

“And why in the hell do you have a photograph of me in that hat?”

“Some people like you in that hat,” Joan replied annoyed, leaning forward slightly to see the photo the newspaper took of him.

“No they don’t,” He scoffed turning back to the laptop. He then quickly turned his head back to face her. “What people?”

“Joan,” Lestrade interrupted. “How’s your sister doing?”

“Uhm,” Joan replied, caught off guard. This wasn’t going the way she hoped it would. There was no tied tongue or absolute desire in his eyes. They were cold and his poison laced words of indifference were cutting o the core. Why the hell wasn’t this working? “It’s going pretty good, I think. From what I’ve seen and heard she’s been laying off the booze so I can relax-“

“Nnn-ope.” Sherlock disagreed offhandedly, still scrolling through her blog.

“Shut up Sherlock.” Joan spat back at him, angry. First he was going to play dumb about her feelings, now he wanted to be an even bigger ass than usual.

“I see you have a date tonight and for the looks of it,” Sherlock turned back to look her up and down, a tight smile on his face. “You’re serious about him.”

“Well, I-“

“You are seeing him tonight, it seems,” He angled his chin towards the bag she left on the table beside her chair.

“Take a day off, Sherlock.” Emma warned in the background. She walked forward with a cup of spiked eggnog the DI brought. “Take a nice drink-”

“Oh, c’mon, don’t act like you don’t see the present at the top of the bag,” He shot back, a look of disapproval on his face. He rose and stalked towards it and picked it up from the bag. “All wrapped as perfectly as can be with a bow. I mean, every one of them are wrapped nicely but this one,” He threw the small package in the air and caught it. “The lovely bow on top, must be for someone special then. The shade of red coincides with the shade of red lipstick you’re wearing, either an unconscious decision or you’re really trying to get him to notice you. Either way, Ms. Watson has _looove_ on her mind tonight, or she’s absolutely serious about him and trying to convince him to be so as well. Hell, if she wasn’t we would mind why she’s giving him a present at all.”

“Stop Sherlock.” Mycroft warned. He ignored him and Joan wanted to cry from embarrassment.

“Well, she is obviously seeing him tonight, don’t you agree brother?” Sherlock smirked and sent an annoyed look towards him on the sofa. Simultaneously, he picked the open card from the box and began to read it aloud. “Let’s see what this says, “Dearest Sher-”

He continued to read the card and his face fell. He swallowed thickly.

“I just wanted you to know,” Joan replied as Sherlock finished reading the card. The words came out thick and threatened to close her throat. Stupid, Stupid Joan. “That whatever you felt for me, I feel the same.” Sherlock slowly raised his head and stared at her, face void of emotion. “Or…at least I thought I did…You always say such horrible things at the worst times, Sherlock. Every time, always…”

Sherlock stood there in absolute shock and no one in the room seemed to know how to breathe. It took a moment before Joan shook out of her reverie.

“Well, since we’re in the process of opening presents, I think it’s time!” She said aloud, If anyone noticed her bring a hand to her face to wipe away a stray tear or two, they all pretended not to see it. Reaching into the bag, Joan pulled out a few more presents. “Okay, let’s see…Here’s one for Emma.”

“You got one for me?!” Emma exclaimed, bringing her hands to her cheeks.

“Well of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?” And then from there presents were passed around the grouping, laughter and happy chattering filling the awkward silence. Sherlock sat back down in front of his laptop and she tried to ignore the look of hurt confusion on his face, while pretending to be interested in Emma’s happiness of the new box of handkerchiefs she bought the girl, not a sad look per se but a look that knew he had screwed up big time and may have had no way to fix it. Of course, Joan realized, of course. That was the look of a man in love, of a man who knew he had truly hurt the person he cared the most about, and regretted the action with a fierceness that kept him quiet.

The rest of the evening went off without a hitch with lots of laughing, talk of wishes for the new year and lots of alcohol spike eggnog, so much in fact that the drunk DI was looking at the equally drunk British Government with a little twinkle in his eye and Emma, respectable adult she was, decided to call it an evening for everyone.

“That is before they do something to embarrass me and that would cause you to burn the sofa.” Emma scolded, looking back at her fathers who were still locking eyes, all he while putting on their coats.

“Have a good evening you all,” Joan laughed. Lestrade smiled wildly and gave Joan a big hug which she returned in full. “Stay out of trouble, mister.”

“Me?!” Lestrade slurred slightly, taken aback. “I am the law! OF course III stay out of trouble.” He turned around and went back to Mycroft who was standing by the door looking very regal…and very drunk. As soon as Lestrade was at arm’s length, he leaned against the man and the DI opened the door and carried the both of them out.

“Joan,” Emma commented from beside her. Joan looked down at her, seeing her sad smile. “I’m…sorry that tonight didn’t go as planned.”

Joan could tell that she above all herself really wanted the relationship to start.

“It’s alright. I had the feeling things wouldn’t go as planned.”

“But…” Emma hesitated, twisting her scarf around in her hands.

“Don’t worry about me.” Joan smiled, leaning down and kissing the girl on the cheek. “Maybe things are just better this way. Go on home and make sure those two don’t make it so that there’s nowhere for you to sit.” Emma’s eyes widened in horror and she kissed Joan’s cheek back before running outside.

Waving one last time, Joan closed the door soundly as the trio got into a black car that Mycroft had planned to have them picked up. Whether he had in advanced planned to get plastered and have drunken Christmas sex was none of her business and steadfastly agreed to herself that she wouldn’t think any more about it, lest she thought about her failed plan. Walking back up to 221B, she silently wished herself a merry Christmas and refused to cry.

 


	14. Christmas in 221B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has fucked up his one chance at happiness.....or has he?
> 
>  
> 
> (I've missed this...I have returned.)
> 
> I just realized that I pasted the chapter twice... i've fixed it now...
> 
> Chapter 15 will be here soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this what is considered a slow burn? I'm relatively new to this so I'm not sure where I'm at. 
> 
> Also I'd like to give thanks to all the big boobied, big booty black women that inspired this post: Amber Rose, Blac Chyna, Nicki Minaj, Beyoncé, and every plus sized black girl with big bellies and thighs on Tumblr for existing and helping me feel more confident about being a big black girl.
> 
>  
> 
> I STARTED A COMPLETELY NEW JOB AND SO INSTEAD OF DAYS IM WORKING THE GRAVE YARD SHIFT SO UNTIL I GET USED TO IT, which so far I haven't, THIS IS GOING TO BE ANOTHER SLIGHTLY LONG HIATUS. 
> 
> ALSO HOPING THAT IN THIS TIME I WILL HAVE A NEW LAPTOP SO PLEASE BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR THAT. iN THE MEANTIME, I WILL BE POSTING NEW SHORT STORIES TO TIDE YOU ALL OVER, INCLUDING FINISHING THAT CAT!LOCK Joan.
> 
> THANKS EVER SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE AND IF YOU HAVE FAN ART DONT FORGET THAT INTERRACIAL SHERLOCK HAS A TUMBLR!!

There were times that Sherlock Holmes would put his foot in his mouth intentionally. Usually it was for a case, to get the exact desired results out of a suspect or even a victim, they would talk faster and usually, after a disgusting amount of tears, he would get the answer he wanted, solve the case and make his way home on an unbelievable giddy high. Of course, people frowned upon it, and when he says people he usually meant Mycroft, Emma or Scotland Yard, in the whole, but this took the cake.

If there was ever a moment where he could freeze time, go back and start over, this was it.

_Dearest Sherlock_

_I would absolutely love to be your girl_

_Love Joan xxx_

 

The shock set in before the reasonable thought did.

_No. No No. Oh no, how…what did? What did I miss? Me? She dressed up for me….she dressed up…_

He stood there in absolute, undeniable shock and awe, staring at the card. When he finally looked up, and saw the disappointment and the hurt on her face, she had started to speak.

“I just wanted you to know,” She her voice trailed, keeping a brave face. She cleared her throat and started again. “I just wanted you to know that whatever you felt for me, I felt the same. Or at least, I thought I did.”

Her face threatened to crumble and he felt his heart start to shatter in his chest. A tear escaped from her right eye.

“You always say such horrible things at the worse times, Sherlock. Every time, always…”

But of course he did, that’s what she, oh, hell who was he kidding, everyone could depend on Sherlock Holmes for. The thought that he should say something was there, the strong urge to say something to make this right was there but…

Joan turned her back and recovered quickly, leaving him to look and feel like the biggest arse in the United Kingdom. Oh who was he kidding?

He was.

Exposing other’s feelings and innermost hidden secrets honestly brought the consulting detective immense joy. The human mind was so delightfully complicated and mysterious, he felt it was his life’s mission to dissect it, to discover its uncharted territories for his own private pleasure. And if the most boring minds took offense, hid or even became fearful of the secrets he could uncover just by peering into their eyes, or giving them a quick once over, even better.

But over the 8 million people living in London, 1/8th of the people in the United Kingdom as a whole, Joan Watson was not included in any of those people. No, never Joan. H would rather go take the brains of the other three in the room, _no, don’t look at me like that_. He would rather cut out his own brain, than touch a hair on her perfectly coiffed head.

He should apologize. Yeah, that was it. That’s what Joan would like, right?

He should tell her all of the things that he had meant to say but didn’t have the chance to.

He should…

“Well since we’re in the process of opening presents, I think that it’s time!” Joan said aloud, sifting through her bag of presents. “Okay, let’s see… here’s one for Emma.”

Dazed, he stepped back to his laptop and sat down, staring blankly at the screen.

The counter on Joan’s blog was standstill at 1,895. Time seemed to freeze in the same manner as well.

Then, before he knew it, Emma was shaking him back to reality. He gazed around briefly and saw that the flat was empty beside the two of them. He looked up into her saddened face.

“I believe you were just caught off guard,” Emma said quietly. “You’ve always been so quick to make deductions and prove that you’re so much smarter than everyone else that sometimes even you make mistakes. You miss the most obvious details, clues creaming in your face.” She removed her hand from his shoulder and stood straight, smiling.

“But I think, what I love the most about you, is that even if you refuse to admit you’re wrong, you always go the extra mile to make things right. When you do finally notice them, you make sure to use your newfound knowledge to the fullest potential.”

Sherlock stared at her in disbelief, and the words seemed to just flow from his mouth.

“I love her.”

Emma turned her head towards the fireplace, wrapping her arms around her to grip the opposite.

“It’s so cold outside tonight and the fire in here is so warm,” She turned back and he once again questioned what devil possessed her angelic outside. “I don’t like being angry at you Uncle for this so I’m going to give you one chance to make this right.” She leaned forward and he could see the fire, (from the fireplace? Hell?), burning in her eyes. “Do not disappoint me.”

“Emma,” Joan called from somewhere. In the downstairs foyer, from the way the echo sounded. “Get down here and get your guardians before they strip out of their clothes instead of putting them on.”

Emma giggled and rushed to the door of the flat. Turning back one last time, she nodded and then disappeared from sight.

In the last few minutes of alone time he had before Joan came back, he unscrambled all of the words he was going to say when Joan stepped into the doorway.

I should say… I’m going to say…

“I’m,” He started, hands clenching into fists. This was so…bloody difficult. Even to Joan, apologizing…But for her he would surely damn try. “I am… sorry. Forgive me.”

It was Joan’s turn to stand in surprise now.

‘It’s,” she started, walking in and heading straight for the table in front of the sofa, cleaning it of the abandoned cups of spiked eggnog. She cleared her throat. “It’s okay, Sherlock. I’m…I understand. You’re not interested in me anymore. It’s perfectly okay.”

“No but that’s-”

Joan shook her head and all he wanted to do was shake her.

_Listen to me, I was wrong! Listen!_

“I see but I do not observe,” She continued, heading towards the kitchen. She all but threw the dishes into the sink. “I’m an idiot. An absolute idiot, as you so wonderfully remind me. I didn’t see it before. Married to your work, you had said so I didn’t think,” She took a shuddering breath. “I didn’t think you’d be interested at all, to be honest.”

When Joan finally looked back at him, he knew she was expecting him to say something. The words danced and danced and danced.

“I think it’s time for me to go to bed.” Joan spoke for him. She walked around the kitchen table, through the small hallway door to the stairs of her room, and Sherlock was positive he just missed his last chance.

“I’m exhausted. Goodnight Sherlock.” And like that, she was up the stairs. Her door closed behind her and Sherlock nearly collapsed in disappointment. He headed towards his bedroom in a stupor, resigned to the fact that he would always be…alone, when his jacket pocket vibrated. He stopped at the bottom of the staircase and pulled out his phone. Mycroft’s, or in his contact list name Fatcroft, name appeared on the lock screen. Opening it, he read:

_We are the masters of the unsaid words, but slaves of those we let slip out_

There was no signature from Mycroft or Emma so he could only figure it was from Lestrade. Those words seemed to be the ammunition he needed to shoot upstairs and throw open Joan’s door.

“I like that dress,” He confessed, stalking inside. Joan stood in front of her bedroom window, undressing from the fact that the dress in question was held in front of her chest, covering her front. She stood there in surprise, eyes wide. He continued.

“I like you in that dress and the other dress you wore yesterday and the one you work last month and every single last one of those terrible jumpers you wear, even the one I accidentally spilled bleach on and those other four I did on purpose. I actually like all of the things you wear mainly because you’re the one wearing them. I like the absolutely idiotic things you say and the way you yell at me and the way you smile at me, even when you think I don’t see you. I love the shape of your eyes and the different shades of your skin. I like that terrible laugh of yours and the fact that everyone seems to want to take you from me and the way you always try to make me eat and…”

“Sherlock!” Joan yelled, getting his attention. She rose her hands and cupped his face. He looked down at her and could have sworn he was losing his mind.

“Sherlock,” Joan continued, smiling. “I love you too.”

Pulling his head down, their lips mashed together and Sherlock was positive his heart exploded. When the muscle stopped battering against his rib cage he relaxed into the kiss and brought his hands up to wrap around her curved waist. He hugged her tight to him, and she moaned in agreement. His mouth opened and hers at the same time, inhaling deep breaths of air.

She pulled away first, but he finally spoke, mind clear again.

“I had been waiting a long time to do that.” He huffed, face hot.

Joan looked down at his chest and nodded in agreement. “Me too.” She looked up into his face, chest heaving against his. “But I’m much more terrible at this than I thought. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve kissed someone.”

“Years?” Sherlock asked puzzled. “Didn’t you kiss any of those terrible dates you went on?”

Joan cocked an eyebrow at him. “No,” She whined, squinting at him while playing with the top button on his dress shirt. “A certain detective always made me think twice on every single date and I wouldn’t let any one of them. I came back dateless and kiss-less. All thanks to you.

“You’re welcome,” He said a little too fast and cockily. Her hands froze and her eyes brow still stayed cocked in the air. “I mean, If I didn’t, you would have found someone you liked more than me so you’d never…”

He faltered and Joan leaned up closer to his face and he couldn’t help but stare at her full lips.

“I’d never what?” She teased. He shrugged and let go of her, backing away. Joan reached out and grabbed his arm, holding tight. “Oh no. You don’t get to walk away from this now, Mister. Tell me!”

“It means nothing now,” Sherlock replied, avoiding the topic. Joan pulled him away from the door he was trying to retreat to and made him sit on the edge of her bed. Stepping in between his legs, Sherlock got a good look at the lingerie st she wore. He had to resist the temptation to reach up and slap himself to make sure he want dreaming.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere until you tell me what you meant.” Joan demanded, placing her hands on her full hips. “Tell me.”

“No.” He replied, defiant. She sucked her teeth in annoyance and he wanted to kiss her again. This night was turning around for the better after all.

“I can stand here all night.” Joan brought up a hand and looked at her manicured nails, like she literally had all of the time in the world. He absolutely refused to smile at her attempt at nonchalance. “I haven’t got shit to do tomorrow and I took off those wedges I was wearing so I’m in the mood to be defiant and an absolute thorn in your side.”

“That’s no different than any other day.” He mumbled loudly and she gasped in offense.

“Joan, let’s just drop it now, alright?” He said calmly, reaching his arms out to her. From the height he was sitting at now, he was at the perfect height to stare at her abundant breasts, wrap his arms around her hourglass waist. It literally sounded like heaven at that moment but Joan Watson was having none of it.

“Tell me!

“Because if you had you’d never want to kiss me!” And he was sure that the blush on his face was bright enough to light up the whole flat. He was flustered and he didn’t like it one bit.

Well…maybe just a little bit.

Joan looked at him in shock and then…laughed. She just laughed and laughed and laughed and he in return couldn’t stop the smile from growing on his face. He scratched the back of his head nervously.

Their laughter died down, ending with Joan wiping tears from her eyes.

“Sherlock,” She giggled breathlessly. “If you ever wanted to kiss me, all you had to do was say so.”

“Would you have?” He couldn’t resist asking and she froze.

“What?” She asked, the look on her face made him realize she considered the openness of the statement and wondered if she would try and take it back. _Please, don’t…_

“Would you have let….me? Kiss you that is.”

Joan shrugged shyly and looked down at the carpet. She looked so young and innocent and …cute. Could he say that? Was that allowed?

“I…I suppose I would have, I mean. I wouldn’t…haven’t been…I’m not against it.” She looked up at him through dark lashes, so mischievously charming that he wanted to nuzzle her. “Actually. I think I would have liked it very much.”

He was kissing her again before he could get some type of restraint on his emotions. Joan laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck, meeting his mouth and it was fantastic.

They finally broke apart, gasping and hot, and stared at one another, unsure of what to do next.

“So,” he started out and Joan’s eyes widened in expectation of his next words. “So…does this mean...does this make us…official?”

Joan’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion and then straightened. “I think…I think it does.”

He let out a big sigh, and leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. They stayed like that for a moment until Joan broke away. He immediately reached out to bring her back before he had a second thought and went to jerk his hand away when she caught it in her own and tugged her towards her bed. She sat down first and pulled his atop her and he followed, leaning over and kissing her lightly on the mouth. He couldn’t stop.

Leaning over, he fell onto his side and Joan humped.

“I’m just gonna’ let you know that if you’re only using this moment to do some type of experiment on my bed, I’m gonna’ be highly pissed.”

“What?” he asked, confused. Why on earth would she…oh. Of course he would have. “I’m not going to do any such thing. Though I might have to find out a way to convince you to use a higher thread count sheet…ow!”

She grabbed his hand and pinched the back of it, a slight punishment. “Shut up!”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. He turned to be face down on the bed and then turned his head to face her. “Must you be so mean?”

“I could ask the same of you!” She exclaimed turning onto her side to face him, head propped up by her hand.

The sheets were soft and worn and smelled entirely of Joan and he felt like he was melting. Joan laughed.

“If you slept in your own bed you would know what comfort felt like, Sherlock Holmes”

“It’s different,” he sighed again, this time utterly content and happy to be here with her. Joan looked so fucking beautiful laid beside him on her side, a centerfold for his eyes only. She blinked slowly at him, that playful smile on his face and he couldn’t resist bringing his hand up to cup a warm, soft cheek. Her eyes closed and she slowly nuzzled the hand. “I don’t have you to share it with me.”

Her eyes opened at the statement and then narrowed, smile growing.

“Well,” She leaned forward and he could smell her perfume, _Chanel? No…Jasmine, sandalwood, maybe. Or Musk and lily of the valley?_ “I’ll just have to find a way to fix that, won’t I?”

“Hmm.” He could only reply as his eyelids drooped. There was such a…peace. Is this all he really needed? Maybe it was due to the excitement of earlier, of his heart overworking and threatening to burst from his chest. Maybe it was due to how soft the bed was, the quiet and cold of the weather outside. He was tired, so tired.

“Joan,” he mumbled. “I’m...I’m tired.”

His eyes closed and something warm caressed the side of his face, over his forehead and through his hair.

“Then sleep Sherlock,” He remembers Joan saying. “I’ll be here when you wake up….yes, I promise.”

 

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**Author's Note:**

>  (In need of an additional Beta/Britpicker, if interested, please let me know!)
> 
>  
> 
> I HAS TUMBLR NOW!!
> 
> blackwatson23.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> Reccomended Joanlockian Listening for your ears list:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/2956823
> 
>  
> 
> (Actual downloadable playlist is in the works..be patient with me!!)


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